


Margaret Hooper Nikolaevna Romanov

by Stormcat385



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally (Broadway Cast) Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anastasia AU, Based on both of the movie and musical Anastasia, F/M, Happy Ending, John || Vlad, Mary || Sophie/Lily, Molly || Anastasia, Moran || Bartok, Moriarty || Rasputin/Gleb, Mrs. Hudson || Dowager Empress, Please enjoy my weird cross overs, Sherlock || Dimitri, Toby is Pooka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormcat385/pseuds/Stormcat385
Summary: Rumors have spread that the Princess Margaret Hooper survived the Russian revolution, and the Dowager Hudson is offering a handsome reward to anyone who returns her. Two scheming conmen, Sherlock and John, set out to groom a fake Princess to swindle the money. Meanwhile, the evil Moriarty is looking for the last Romanov to finish and fulfill his hatred.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 49
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so excited to finally have this completed and posted! I’m very proud of this one! Feel free to leave a Kudo and a comment if you liked it!
> 
> I, in no way, take credit for any of the quotes that you’ll find in here, either from Sherlock, the 1997 Anastasia movie, or the Broadway musical, even though in some places I have altered the quotes and/or added my own dialogue.

_There was a time, not very long ago, when we lived in an enchanted world of elegant palaces and grand parties. The year was 1916, and my son Bartholomew II was the Tsar of Imperial Russia. We were celebrating the 300th anniversary of our family’s rule. And, that night, no star burned brighter than that of our sweet Margaret Hooper, my youngest granddaughter._

From the grand ballroom dance floor, an eight-year-old Margaret Hooper flew to her grandmother, the Dowager Empress Hudson, in a flurry of golden dress layers and a blue sash that sparkled beneath the brilliantly lit chandeliers. The Dowager Hudson lifted little Margaret off the ground and into her lap, smothering her with a hug while Margaret’s laughter rang like bells. Then Margaret sat back in her grandmother’s lap and looked at her sorrowfully.

“Why must you go away, Grandmama?” she asked.

A small smile on her face, Dowager Hudson touched her granddaughter’s nose playfully. “I have stayed too long here. But I had a very special gift made for you, to make the separation easier for both of us.”

Hidden in the folds of her dress, Dowager Hudson retrieved a small music box and held it out for her granddaughter. Margaret gasped in wonder and took it.

“For me?” she gaped. “Is it a jewellery box?”

Behind the Dowager’s throne, unbeknownst to the royalty, a small boy stood trying to peer at the gift the princess had been given. A butler, however, found him and picked him up to return him, remarking impatiently, “You belong in the kitchen, Sherlock!”

Dowager Hudson also took a pendant on a chain from her dress, fitted it into the present, and began winding it. When she let go, the lid lifted and raised two figures: a tall, dark-haired man who held the hand of a ballerina whose leg occasionally extended upward.A dainty melody began playing from inside. Margaret gasped once more when she heard it.

“It plays our lullaby!” she breathed.

“You can play it at night before you go to sleep,” the Dowager Hudson said, “and pretend that it is me singing to you.”

As the melody continued, Margaret and her grandmother sang their lullaby in one voice, “On the wind, ‘cross the sea, hear this song and remember. Soon you’ll be home with me, once upon a December.”

The music box lid closed and the melody faded, but the royalty continued smiling. Dowager Hudson took the pendant from the box and held it out for Margaret, saying, “Read what it says.”

Margaret took it and held it in front of her nose, enunciating the long words: ‘Together in London.’

Exploding with excitement, Margaret cried, “Really? Oh Grandmama!” She threw her arms around her grandmother’s neck and squeezed her tightly. But they would never be together in London.

Ten years later, the royal family held another ball, but at midnight, the large doors to the ballroom opened, and a cold wind blew out the candles on the overhead chandeliers, casting the entire room into shadow. A cloaked man stalked to the steps leading up to the thrones, his white-clad companion following closely behind him. Bartholomew II stepped in his way, his hand held out to stop his advances.

“How dare you return to this place,” the Tsar growled.

The cloaked man gasped and touched his heart. “But I am your confidant,” he pleaded, mockery in his voice.

“Confidant? Ha!” Bartholomew cried. “You are a traitor! Get out!” He pointed towards the ballroom doors.

The dark man hit away the finger that pointed behind him. With a calm fury, he muttered, “You think you can banish the great Moriarty?” He swept aside a part of his cloak to reveal his hand clutching a glass vial surrounded by the onyx body of a snake. Atop was a small skull impaled with a sword and inside was shifting green mist. “By the unholy powers vested in me,” he began, lifting the reliquary, “I banish  _ you _ with a curse. Mark my words: you and your family will die within the fortnight. I will not rest until I see the end of the royal line forever!”

From that moment on, the spark of unhappiness in Russia was fanned into a flame that would destroy many lives. Consumed by his hatred for Margaret and her family, Moriarty had sold his soul for the power to destroy them. The night of his portent, Moriarty unleashed the gates that held back the rioting mobs who had been growing ever angrier over the years. They flooded in, leaving destruction in their wake. Terror had struck when they reached the palace; their torches lit the walls, broke the windows, and burnt everything that would catch flame. The royal court fled in a frenzy, Dowager Hudson holding tight to Margaret Hooper’s hand.

As they were running, Margaret gasped in horror. “My music box!” she cried before turning around, freeing her hand from the Dowager’s, and running back through the fleeing crowd.

“Margaret! Come back!” the Dowager Hudson pleaded desperately, trying to follow the young girl through the panicked flowing current of viscounts and dukes. Margaret arrived at her bedroom and threw the door open, flying to her dollhouse. Dowager Hudson reached Margaret’s room and rushed in, closing the door behind her as Margaret pulled out her music box from one of the dollhouse rooms. From outside the door, they both heard thundering footsteps approaching and furious yelling.

“Margaret, hurry,” Dowager Hudson pressed, taking Margaret’s hand and turning to rush towards another door until a pair of hands tugged at the back of the Dowager’s coat. She turned quickly to see the startled face of a young servant boy—it was the same servant boy who had watched the Dowager give Margaret her gift.

“Come this way,” he said hurriedly, “out the servant’s quarters.” He guided the two back towards the wall where a small panel had been removed, revealing an unknown passageway. The Dowager Hudson pushed Margaret towards the exit, quickly following her in. Margaret gasped and turned towards her room.

“My music box!” During the panic, she had dropped it and went to grab it, but Sherlock pushed her back in.

“Go!” he commanded. “Go!” And shut the panel door. At that moment, Bolshevik rioters broke into the room.

“Where are they, boy?” one of them barked. Sherlock grabbed a nearby vase and threw it at the invaders, but one hit him over the head with the butt of his rifle. Sherlock fell to the floor unconscious, his hand close to the abandoned music box.

After slipping through the back exit, Margaret and the Dowager Hudson fled hand-in-hand across the frozen river. “Keep up with me, darling,” the Dowager urged, holding tightly to Margaret’s hand. But Moriarty, who had been crossing the bridge that they passed under, jumped over the side and grabbed the back of Margaret’s coat once he landed. Margaret screamed as she was brought to the ground and Moriarty clawed at her. The Dowager quickly tried to pull Margaret from Moriarty’s grasp, but he had an irremovable hand on her ankle.

Growling in merciless fury, his black eyes lit with flames. “You’ll never escape me, child. Never!”

After one warning sound of cracking ice, the ice gave way and Moriarty fell into the freezing river. He let go of Margaret in place of clawing at the snow to pull him back up.

“Moriarty!” his companion cried, running to catch up with him and pull him back up.

“Sebastian! Pull me up!” Moriarty panic-strickenly demanded before he lost his grip and sunk quickly into the water. Sebastian plunged his arm into the hole to grab Moriarty in time but came up with only the reliquary in his hand.

The Dowager Hudson and Margaret fled to the train platform, where they were ushered by many other fleeing royalty members onto the train as it was leaving. They pulled the Dowager aboard, who turned around to pull up Margaret.

“Grandmama!” she pleaded helplessly.

“Here! Take my hand! Hold on to my hand!”

Their hands met and they desperately held onto each other.

“Don’t let go,” Margaret sobbed, her eyes brimmed with fearful tears.

The train picked up speed, however, and soon their fingers slipped from each other. Margaret screamed as she lost her grip and she fell, her head falling against the train rail.

“Margaret!” the Dowager mourned, the other members on the train holding her from jumping off to search for her granddaughter. But under the dozens of aimless train goers who crossed the tracks, Margaret was quickly lost and out of sight.

_ So many lives were destroyed that night. What had always been was now lost forever. And my Margaret Hooper, my beloved grandchild, I never saw her again. _


	2. Chapter 2

Among the drab and dreary days that plagued St. Petersburg, few things gave the people living there joy. Comrade General James promised that Russia and St. Petersburg—newly renamed Leningrad—would see a bright future under the communist rule.

A scraggly young man sat on the baluster coping outside of a government building with one foot dangling off and halfway through an apple. “They can call it Leningrad,” he grumbled, taking a bite and speaking around his mouthful, “but it will always be Petersburg! New name; same empty stomachs.” He tossed away the apple and hopped down, hands in his pockets and easily dodging knocking shoulders with the crowded town.

“They say that times are better—well I say they’re not! You can’t cook an empty promise in an empty pot. ‘A brighter day is dawning!’ they say! ‘It’s almost at hand!’ The skies are grey, the walls have ears, and he who argues disappears.” He stopped as everyone in the town raised their fists to salute the communist leaders. The young man dug his hands further down into his pockets but recited with the people around him in a loud chorus, “Hail our brave new land!”

The town often spoke in one voice, “St. Petersburg is booming, it’s a city on the rise.”

“It’s really very friendly,” an innocent young woman attempted with a shrug before the wizened woman beside her paused to scoff, “If you don’t mind spies!”

Many who stood in a breadline holding empty metal plates remarked to each other, “We stand behind our leader and stand in line for bread. We’re good and loyal comrades and our favourite colour’s red!”

The thin man scoffed, turning up the collar of his grey coat to protect his ears from the cold, “Now everyone is equal: professors push the brooms. Two-dozen total strangers live in two small rooms.” He slipped into the hidden opening that led to a black market selling forgotten royal items and hid behind one of the pillars atop the staircase leading inside. Quickly looking around, he ducked his head and muttered to himself, “You hold a revolution, and here’s the price you pay. Thank goodness for the gossip; this town is so dull.”

The town’s spirits lifted as people cried, “Спасибо за слухи!” in thankfulness for the rumours that get them through the dreary days.

The people of St. Petersburg buzzed about the whispers that one member of the Tsar’s family had miraculously survived the Bolshevik attack. A lean man waded through the bustling crowd, giving quick and polite nods to those he bumped shoulders with, craning his neck to search above peoples’ shoulders as he listened to the rumours passing around him.

“Have you heard what they’re saying in the street?”

A newspaper seller said in a hushed voice, pointing to the headline, “Although the Tsar did not survive, one daughter may be still alive!”

“The princess Margaret Hooper!” many cried.

Under the hawk eyes of a communist guard, a man pressed to the shouting group, “But please do not repeat! It’s only a rumour; a legend; a mystery.”

“It’s something whispered in an alleyway or through a crack.”

“It’s a rumour that’s part of our history.”

The small man spotted what he was looking for. He slipped into an alleyway beside the palace, found a closed wooden door, whispered several words through the cracks, and was promptly let in.

A gypsy at her stand held out a snow globe of the lost princess to shoppers passing by and spoke to them, “They say her royal Grandmama will pay a royal sum to someone who can bring the princess back!”

Inside the hidden black market was a bustling bazaar, selling lost relics of the Romanovs that were forgotten in the palace, and found again by eager grave robbers. Entering into the bazaar, the man continued to look around.

“John,” came a hushed voice. Out stepped the tall man and drew his arm around his short friend’s shoulders.

“Sherlock!” exclaimed the smaller man. “They’ve closed another border!”

“What!?” Sherlock cried, his voice still lowered. John shook his head regrettably.

“We should’ve gotten out of Russia while we still could!” As they walked deeper into the market, John mourned wistfully, “St. Petersburg was lovely when royalty was in. I had called myself a count as though I’d always been. I hobnobbed with the royals! But then a change of luck: the Tsar was dead, the royals fled, and, comrade, now we’re stuck!”

As they passed through the stalls of stolen goods, many sellers called to them and tried to interest them in what they had to offer.

“A rouble for this painting,” one offered, holding out a painting of a royal man in a hussar. “It’s Romanov, I swear!”

Another stall had a woman calling to buyers, “Count Lestrade’s pyjamas! Comrade, buy the pair!” John had stopped at the stall but Sherlock quickly pulled his arm and dragged him to the item that had caught his eye.

“That cloak,” he began, pointing to one hanging on a rack, “it’s lined with real fur. Do you see, John?” He leaned in closely and sniffed it. “It smells like burnt human hair. Only real fur will smell like that when it’s burned.” He stood up straight. “It must have been left in the palace when the Bolsheviks attacked. Plus the ends of the hairs taper—that’s a dead giveaway.” He tilted his head as he continued looking. “And there,” he said, pointing, “there‘s an ‘M’ initialled into the fur. It’s embroidered with silk thread—you can tell from the sheen. Only royals would be able to afford such a fine thread. And an ‘M’ for whom? Give you one guess.”

“You think it belonged to Margaret Hooper?” John asked.

“That’s it,” Sherlock said with a smirk, taking the cloak and flipping a coin into the seller’s hand.

“It could be worth a fortune if it belonged to her,” John said, not being able to resist smiling as he raised his eyebrows. They walked towards the back of the shop and through a curtained doorway.

They walked through the connecting hallway which had been converted to hold stock. Piled against the walls were many more royal artefacts that were stashed away, most of it being hidden under shreds of tapestry. Sherlock and John easily dodged the obstacles of old furniture, instruments, and portraits.

“Well, Sherlock, I got us a theatre,” John said.

Sherlock laughed. “Everything’s going according to plan. All we need is the girl!”

They began climbing a rickety wooden staircase. They had claimed a section of the building to hide themselves away in and also utilised it for organising parts of their scam.

With a smile Sherlock shook his head and said, “Just think, John: no more forging papers, no more stolen goods. We’ll have three tickets out of here: one for you, one for me, and one for Margaret Hooper!”

When they reached their rooms, Sherlock spoke to John, his eyes wide in excited madness, and took quick steps towards the small balcony that looked over dreary St. Petersburg. “It’s the rumour, John! The legend; the mystery. It’s the Princess Margaret Hooper who will help us fly!” He turned back to his friend, flung the fur into his arms, and triumphantly pointed at him, a wide smile in his face. “You and I, friend, will go down in history.”

He stepped to his bags and rummaged through them until he pulled out a small jewellery box (although despite his towering intellect, he still hadn’t figured out how to open it). He tossed it in the air, caught it, set it aside, and then started packing what little belongings he had. “We’ll find a girl to play the part and teach her what to say. We’ll dress her up and take her to London.”

John laughed at his friend’s antics as he picked up his suitcase. Sherlock took up his own bag and held out the jewellery box, making his way towards his friend. “Imagine the reward her dear old ‘Grandmama’ would pay! Who else could pull it off but you and me? We’ll be rich, John!”

“We’ll be out!” John crowed.

With a laugh, Sherlock cheered, “And St. Petersburg will have some more to talk about!”

As they descended the wooden stairs, bags in hand, Sherlock told John, “Now, this is risky, but not more than usual. We’ll need papers, we’ll need tickets, and we’ll need nerves of steel.”

John laughed incredulously. “Yes, it’s risky, but a  _ lot _ more than usual.”

The disheveled ballroom echoed Sherlock’s words as they passed back through.

“We’ll try to pass the border with our papers and our plot.”

“Hopefully disaster won’t ensue,” John prayed.

The sun caught in their eyes and they looked on over the moving crowds outside the entrance of the palace.

“With luck it all goes smoothly,” Sherlock said calmly.

“And with luck we won’t be shot!” John fretted, stepping to his side.

“Who else could pull it off but me and you?”

The rumours continued to be discussed while John and Sherlock hurried to jump aboard the back of a leaving tram.

“Have you heard? There’s a rumour in St. Petersburg!”

“Have you heard? Comrade, what do you suppose?”

“It’s a fascinating mystery!”

Sherlock removed his hat and flung it out triumphantly, leaning out of the tram and shouting to the city that was so busy gossiping that it was deaf, “It’s the biggest con in history!”

“The Princess Margaret Hooper: alive or dead? Who knows?” The crowd was hushed and the rumour was then only discussed in secret.


	3. Chapter 3

Far outside of Petersburg the snow had stopped falling and left an untouched blanket on the ground. It crunched softly under the feet of a small woman travelling along the snowy dirt path. The air was silent and peaceful, broken just barely by the mousy mutterings of her reading a note in their hand.

“‘ _I got you a job at the hospital_ ,’ ” the note said, “‘ _You go down the path till you get to the fork in the road and then go left_.’ ”

The sigh that escaped her marked the cold air with a cloud. “That makes, let’s see... how many? Four jobs this month? Times are tougher than they used to be. Oh, are they? I don’t remember what they used to be like. It’s better than starving and stealing,” she muttered, holding her body to keep warm. “Let’s see... I have seven kopecks and a ruble for emergencies. Is that enough to get to London?”

She grabbed the pendant around her neck. “‘Together in London,’” she read aloud. “I need to go to England to find my family.” She scoffed at herself, “It’s time to take your place in life, Molly; in life and in line!”

Just at that moment she reached a snow covered sign with two arrows, each pointing down a different path where the road split.

“‘ _ Go left, _ ’” Molly looked from her note to the snowy road, appearing dreadfully monochromatic. “I know what’s to the left,” she mumbled sadly, “I’ll be Molly the Pathologist forever.”

With a large step to the right, she put herself on the other road, smiling. “But if I go right, maybe I could find...” Trailing off, Molly fingered her pendant again and looked down at it. “Whoever gave me this pendant  _ must _ have loved me.”

Molly suddenly laughed at herself. “This is crazy! Me? Go to London?” She took a seat on the snow beside the road, calling up to the dull grey clouds. “Send me a sign! A hint? Anything!”

For several moments, the wind didn’t answer her. She sat with her head on her knees, snow beginning to fall and land in her hair. By the time her head was covered she looked up again. Across the road sat two green eyes, stark against the white snow.

“Oh,” Molly gasped, “hello.”

“Miaow,” it answered. The small cat stood up and made its way towards her.

“Are you lost, too?” Molly asked, reaching to run her hand down its grey back. “You can join me. I’m waiting for a sign.”

The cat sat down in front of her, firmly repeating, “Miaow.”

Molly checked its neck for a collaras she scratched its chin. “Not even a name? Hm. I was fortunate to be left with a name. And a collar: see!” She held out her pendant to the cat, who rubbed against her fingers. “My collar tells me where I’m from. At least I think so. But you don’t know where you’re from? Or your name?”

The cat once again repeated, “Miaow.”

After a thoughtful hum and a short nod, she decided, “Then I’ll call you Toby.”

Toby swatted at the necklace dangling from Molly’s fingers, so she took it off to play with him, laughing joyfully as he jumped to catch it. As he swung, the chain caught in his claw and he yanked the necklace out of her hand.

“Hey!” Molly cried, reaching to grab it before Toby took up the pendant in his mouth and ran several paces down the other fork in the road. He stopped to look back at her, the chain swinging below his chin.

Molly groaned. “Oh, great. A cat wants me to go to St. Petersburg.”Then she gasped. “Alright,” she shrugged in defeat, smiling as she glanced up at the sky. “I can take a hint.”

Toby watched her as she approached and gingerly bent down to take her necklace from between his teeth. The wind began to whisper and pull on her clothes. A trail of drifting snow raced down the path, ringing an echo of laughter as it went.

Molly stood in thought for several moments. “Heart, don’t fail me now. Courage, don’t desert me. Don’t turn back now that we’re here.” She took one step, hearing the snow crunch beneath her, and turned to look back at the road she had come from. “People always say life is full of choices; no one ever mentions fear.”

Toby sat at her feet, listening to her and blinking reassuringly.

“Or how the world can seem so vast,” she laughed, “on this journey to the past.” Finally she began to smile and scooped up Toby in her coat.

“Somewhere down this road, Toby, I know someone’s waiting. Years of dreams just can’t be wrong! Arms will open wide.” She squeezed him tightly. “I’ll be safe and wanted, finally home where I belong! Well, starting now I’m learning fast on this journey to the past!”

As the sun dipped, Molly was walking through a wooden village, Toby walking dutifully beside her. Families began to gather inside. Grey smoke rose against the grey sky, and watching it made her shiver. She imagined a crackling fire to warm her tired, frozen feet.

“A little food wouldn’t be too bad either, huh, Toby?” she pouted.

Two children played in the snow as their parents brought in fire wood and squealed when they saw Toby. They ran to him, dropped to their knees, and reached out their hands for him to sniff, which he did slowly and cautiously before allowing them to stroke his back and scratch his chin.

Molly watched distantly as the parents called their children back to them, straightening their coats and caps, and sent a wave to Molly. She watched the warmth of family play out before her and wondered, “Home; love; family; there was once a time I  _ must _ have had them, too. I will never be complete until I find them.”

A sudden shot rang out through the air followed by several startled screams. Molly dropped to her knees, hit by sudden unknown memories of gunshots, screaming, and fire. She sat paralysed in the snow, hands over head and her mind reeling before a young man knelt by her and placed a hand on her back.

“It was a truck backfiring, comrade,” he said comfortingly. “That’s all it was.”

Molly looked up, stuttering and blinking away tears. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I thought I... remembered...”

With a hand under her arm the man helped her onto her feet. “Those days are over now: neighbour against neighbour. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

Molly finally looked at him as the memories faded. His olive uniform fit him snugly, the black belt buckled tightly high on his waist and from under the visor of his hat his wide brown eyes searched her face.

“You’re shaking,” he commented, pressing a gloved hand over hers, which trembled without her knowing, then he turned and pointed several houses down. “There’s a tea shop just steps from here and—”

“Thank you,” Molly answered quickly, pulling away from him and pressing forward.

He called after her, “What’s your rush?”

She turned back to him and Toby stopped by her feet. “I need to get to St. Petersburg; to go to London.”

“You must not have heard: Petersburg is Leningrad now. What’s in London?”

Molly shifted. “I’m looking for answers.”

“Well, I’m headed to Leningrad myself; if you like I could take you with me.”

After a moment, Molly smiled. “Thank you.”

The young man began to lead the way to an uncovered military car and slid into the driver’s side. When Molly was settled into the seat beside him with Toby in her lap he reached his hand over to her. “James.”

“Molly,” she answered, taking his hand, then added, “You’re a soldier.”

“I’m a general,” he corrected, starting the car and manoeuvring it through the snow. “I work for the government.” The town began to speed past them as they drove on.

For most of the drive they sat in companionable silence until Molly commented on James’s frequent glances at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a laugh. “You just look a great deal like the Grand Duchess Margaret Hooper.”

Molly sat in thought for a moment. “I guess I never thought about it.”

“There have been rumours that she survived the Bolshevik attack ten years ago.” His brows furrowed and his voice darkened. “You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you?”

“No,” Molly answered firmly, her nerves rising at his sudden warning tone.

There was another moment of silence between them, this time less comfortable. “I’m sorry,” James finally said. “You must understand that it’s my job to protect the government, and the return of royalty could overturn what we’ve made for ourselves—even rumours of royalty surviving could incite rebellions. If you hear anything while you’re in Leningrad you’ll tell me right away, won’t you?”

Molly was eager to end the conversation—James had gotten suddenly angry, so she nodded quickly and agreed quietly. The rest of the drive eventually dissolved the tension until the two arrived in Leningrad. It was well into the night and the snow fell lightly. Few people still wandered around, and those who passed the military car hurried past it when James stepped out, ducking their heads to avoid being seen.

“You best find someplace to sleep. The train station isn’t far from here. I know of a train that can take you all the way to France. Then from France you can take a boat to England,” said James as Molly got out of the car as well. “And Molly,” he called, and she turned around, “I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

Molly smiled genuinely and shifted a sleeping Toby against her chest. “Thank you, James. I hope we meet again.” They nodded respectfully and then parted ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

The train station was crowded, and Molly gazed around at the various people under the yellow light pouring from the ticket station. The man in front of her moved and revealed a gruff ticket taker. Molly stepped up confidently.

“One ticket to London, please,” she sang.

“Exit visa,” the man answered, holding out a large hand expectantly and leaning his head on his other one.

Molly paused. “Exit visa?”

“No exit visa?” he asked, rising from his stool. “No ticket!” he growled before slamming shut the wooden window blinds. Molly stood still for a moment in shock before she felt a pull at the back of her coat. She turned around to a haggard old woman, bent over herself with a shawl over her head.

“See Sherlock,” she croaked under her breath. “He can help.”

“Where can I find him?” Molly asked, lowering her voice.

“At the old palace,” answered the old woman before quickly adding, “but you didn’t hear it from me!”

Molly nodded slowly, straightened up, and looked over her shoulders as she started towards the abandoned palace.

At that moment elsewhere, the dusty stage of an old theater was now being swept by a long, cheap boa. The actress twirled this way and that, all the while John called from the back of the house.

“Thank you, yes, that’s enough, yes,” he repeated as the thin woman continued her performance.

“—and I look like a princess—“

“Thank you, yes, very nice,” he tried again.

“—I dance like a feather—“

“That’s enough! Thank you! Next please!” John cried desperately, sighing in relief as she finally left the stage. Sherlock sat leaned far back in his chair, his arms crossed and his head felled backwards, obviously in torment. John glanced apologetically over at his friend before scribbling out the actress’s name, sadly looking over the plenty they had rejected and the few they had left to go.

Another woman stepped up onto the stage. She was wrapped in a fur coat that covered most of her face. She took a huge, drawn breath which crackled loudly and was about to speak before Sherlock yelled, “Next!” with his head still hung backwards.

After she left John cried despairingly and collapsed onto the desk. When they were back in their room packing their bags, John lamented hysterically over his empty wallet.

“That’s it, Sherlock. Game over. Our last kopeck gone for this flea-infested theatre and still no girl to pretend to be Margaret Hooper.”

“Do please try to relax, John,” Sherlock added with a roll of his eyes. They exited the theater through a side door and began walking back to the palace through the snow. “We’ll find her, John. There has to be someone in this town good enough to play her. One look at this jewellery box, and the Empress will think we have the real Margaret Hooper.”

Sherlock knocked shoulders with a thin woman who indignantly muttered, “Excuse me.”

Sherlock continued, “Before she catches on we’ll be off spending the ten million roubles.”

Meanwhile, Molly finally found the abandoned Lestrade Palace. As she rubbed her shoulder after knocking it painfully against a tall man, Toby jumped out of her arms and slipped under the barred entrance into the palace.

“Toby!” cried Molly, kneeling down and trying to peer under the wooden beams. “Toby!” She gave three tugs on the planks and she tumbled backwards when they noisily broke free.

In a room in the palace where Sherlock and John made up their room and brooded over a can of beans, Sherlock sat up and looked at John.

“Did you hear something?”

John answered around a mouthful of beans, “No.”

“Shush!” Sherlock hissed before getting up and leaving.

Molly entered the palace, which echoed hauntingly, and continued to call for Toby.

“Toby, where are you?” She slowly walked up several grand checkered and carpeted staircases, gazing up at the tall ceilings and magnificent architecture. Upon entering a large greeting room, there was a clothed table that stretched the length of the room bestrewn with dusty silverware: bowls, trays, pitchers, and candlesticks. She walked to the table, entranced by the forgotten relics. She picked up a silver tray and blew away the dust to gaze at her reflection; for a moment she saw two dancing figures in the reflection and quickly put the tray down after shaking her head. Toby appeared again from under the tablecloth as Molly walked towards a tall mirror on the wall. Under the mirror was a painted china vase set on a small wooden table.

“This place...” Molly breathed, reaching up to touch the vase. “It’s like a memory from a dream.”

She quietly recalled in a hushed tone, tracing the figures on the vase, “Dancing bears, painted wings—things I  _ almost _ remember, and a song someone sings once upon a December.”

She wandered through the nearby door which hung open and entered a large empty room, the outside street lamps casting muddy orange rays on the dusty, marbled floor as it filtered in through dirty stained glass windows. Molly found herself in the royal ballroom.

Down the side stairs she stopped at the landing and looked at the towering royal portrait as she dropped her coat and gloves to the ground. The royal family, even with solemn faces, held each other close and warmly. As she looked at it, Molly wished desperately as she wrapped her arms around herself, “Someone holds me safe and warm, horses prance through a silver storm, and figures dancing gracefully across my memories!”

She closed her eyes tight, wished harder, and when she opened them again, the phantoms of a hundred dancing couples burst from the stained windows and lowered to the ground, all waltzing and hailing an angelic chorus. The dust in the ballroom seemed to be cleared away as they touched the floor. The chandeliers relit brightly and the room began to glow warmly, as if life had been breathed into it once more.

Molly took two steps down the stairs and, when the couple to her right bowed and curtsied politely, she bowed lowly, and did the same for the couple on her left. Molly ran down the stairs amongst the people and began to dance with a distant smile on her face.

“Someone holds me safe and warm!” she cried out as the faceless people around her danced with her. “Horses prance through a silver storm! Figures dancing gracefully across my memories!”

Far above her on the landing, from the portrait stepped out the royal family. The three sisters Olga, Marie, and Tatiana, who chatted lively to each other as they descended the stairs, the young boy, Alexi, and their father and mother, Bartholomew and Alexandra. The sisters came to Molly, took her, spun her, and seemed to talk to her; their features were almost distinct, yet Molly still couldn’t make them out. One brought her silk white gloves, another brought her ruby earrings, and the other brought her a pearl necklace, and they placed them on her. In a golden light, Molly saw a dress appear that billowed around her, large and full, the striking red fabric glittering dazzlingly. The gloves reached above her elbows, the pearls stood out on her bare shoulders, and the earrings matched with a large ruby tiara on her head. When she turned, the dress was flung about under the weight of so many sewn emeralds and rubies so that a glimpse of the eight other layers underneath could be seen.

A dashing faceless man in red stepped up to her and took her into a waltz. She glided across the room effortlessly, as if she had done it before. “Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember,”—She passed to another partner, and then to another—“things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember.”

The crowd had begun to part, and Molly came to a dizzying stop. Her partner bowed politely to someone over her shoulder before stepping away. Molly turned around and saw Bartholomew standing before her, his wife and son standing at the bottom of the stairwell. His manner was gentle and loving, and she could see some outline of a smile on his face. He stopped in front of her, and she gasped. But just as she had seen his face, before she could recognise him, it vanished again and he was left faceless. For a moment she stood limp until he picked up her hand and waltzed several simple steps with her.

“And a song someone sings...”

When they stopped, he held her gloved hands and gently kissed her forehead. It was so delicate, it felt like merely a breath. The kiss of a phantom.

“Once Upon a December.”

He took a step back and bowed. She curtsied low to the ground and bowed her head as the people around her faded into nothingness. Only Bartholomew remained. She could see his feet turn and begin to walk back to the portrait, even though she wanted to beg him to stay. Her head still bowed, she stayed on the ground and shut her eyes in order not to see him go. To her surprise and confusion, she felt a tear fall from her eye.

“Hey!”

Molly gasped and looked up. Her dress fell in a cloud of shimmering gold—once again she was wearing her tattered shirt, and the Tsar was gone, standing proudly once again in the portrait.

“What are you doing in here?”

Molly quickly looked over her shoulder. A man stood at the top of the staircase behind her and leaned over the rail to look at her. She stood up to run back the way she had come.

“Stop!” he shouted, and began to sprint down the stairs to catch her. “Stop!” he cried again, and once more, “Stop!” by the time Molly had reached the landing and scooped up her discarded coat and gloves. “Hold on a minute! Hold on!” Finally Molly stopped and turned to look at him.

Out of breath, Sherlock came to a stop at the bottom of the staircase and quickly looked over the girl. Immediately several deductions swirled around her in his head:

_ 28 years old _

_ Hand-me down clothes _

_ Wool-cotton mix _

_ Orphan _

_ Runaway _

_ Lost? _

_ No friends _

It wasn’t until he finally looked at her face when all the deductions dropped and only one remained, floating largely across his mind:

_ Margaret Hooper _

John finally caught up to Sherlock. “What are you doing in here?” he panted.

Sherlock caught John’s shoulder and whispered to him without taking his eyes off of Molly, “John, do you see what I see?”

John looked confused at Sherlock, then at Molly, and then back at Sherlock. “No.”

Sherlock huffed. “That’s because you  _ see _ but you don’t observe!”

“Excuse me,” Molly interrupted. Both men turned to look at her. “Are you Sherlock?”

Sherlock straightened out and began to climb the staircase, John close behind him. “Perhaps. Depends on who’s looking for him.” With a small smile on his face, Sherlock crossed his arms and stopped in front of Molly.

Molly took a step back instinctively. “My name is Molly. I need travel papers. I was told to look for you.” Sherlock continued to look at her. “What?” she asked.

Sherlock shook his head and laughed, and John could tell he was playing her now. “I’m sorry, it’s just that you look an awful lot like...” He gestured towards the large painting behind her, and once she turned to look, Sherlock continued, “Never mind. Now, you said something about travel papers?”

Sherlock waited and watched as Molly continued to look at the painting for several more moments. He smiled.

“Uh, yes,” Molly said, finally turning back to Sherlock, clearly something still on her mind. “I’d like to go to London.”

“London?” Sherlock asked, ignoring as John looked down to look at Toby, who had just butted his leg. He took another step closer to her. “Now, let me ask you something—Molly is it? Is there a last name that goes with that?”

Molly rung her hands nervously, “Well, actually—this is gonna sound crazy—I don’t know my last name. I was—“

“Found wandering around when you were eight years old, your clothes have all had several previous owners and you have no family, meaning you’ve been living on your own for the past ten years, presumably wandering from place to place looking for work. You don’t have a clue to where you come from except...” Sherlock hooked the chain around her neck and drew up the pendant from under her scarf. “...this.” Molly gaped at Sherlock and he grinned triumphantly. He read the pendant, “‘Together In London.’” He looked up at her.

“Can you help me?” she finally asked. “I have very few memories of my past.”

“And that’s perfect,” Sherlock remarked quickly before quietly hissing over his shoulder, “John, the tickets.” John dug in his coat and placed ballet tickets into the hand Sherlock held open behind his back. Sherlock brought the tickets in front of Molly and waved them around fast enough so that she couldn’t see what they really were.

“In fact,” he said, dancing around her as she reached for the tickets, “we’re going to London ourselves. But unfortunately, the third one is for...” He gestured up towards the painting. “Margaret Hooper.”

He quickly looked back at her and found her captured by the painting again. Sherlock passed a sly smile to John.

“We’re going to reunite the Grand Duchess Margaret Hooper with her grandmother,” John said. Molly turned around to look at him.

Sherlock commented in feigned interest, “You know, you do sort of resemble her.”

The two men wrapped an arm around Molly and began to walk her down the stairs. Molly frowned and remembered all that James had said to her: her resemblance and his warning.

“You have the Dowager’s eyes,” John remarked.

“Bartholomew’s smile...” Sherlock added.

“And Margaret’s feisty spirit!”

“You know Molly  _ does _ mean ‘rebellious woman.’”

Molly was exasperated by their implications and ducked under their arms to take a step back up the stairs. She laughed incredulously. “Are you trying to tell me that  _ I’m _ Margaret Hooper?”

Sherlock looked at her seriously. “All I’m saying is that I’ve seen a thousand girls all over the country, and not one of them looks as much like the Grand Duchess as you.” He walked to her, turned her around, and pointed at the painting. “Look at the portrait!”

Molly glared at Sherlock, her eyes glistening in frustration. “You say such horrible things.”

On the more sensitive side of things, John spoke up, “Why?” Molly turned to look at him, wiping her nose with her sleeve. He said gently, “You don’t remember what happened to you. No one knows what happened to her. You’re looking for family in London.”

“And her only family is in London,” interrupted Sherlock.

“Have you ever considered the possibility?”

“That I could be royalty?” Molly exclaimed. They nodded in unison. She laughed and cried at the hysterical suggestion, “Well, I don’t know! It’s kind of hard to think of yourself as a duchess when you’re sleeping on a damp floor!” She scoffed again and looked at the painting. “But sure, I think every lonely girl would hope she’s a princess.”

John added, his voiced hushed in wonder, “And somewhere, one little girl is.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, checked his wristwatch, and then grabbed John by the arm as he babbled on. He began to drag him away and back down the stairs.

“Wish we could help,” Sherlock said, “but the third ticket is for the Grand Duchess Margaret Hooper. But good luck.” He swaggered down the steps and John reluctantly followed in tow.

Molly continued to gaze up at the large portrait, reaching out a hand to touch it.

After a moment, John leaned into Sherlock and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell her about our plan?” John took note of the smug grin on his face.

Sherlock scoffed quietly. “Please, all she wants to do is go to London. She didn’t realise the ballet tickets weren’t train tickets. She’s clearly desperate. Why give away a third of the reward money?”

As they continued walking, John pressed again, “I’m telling you, Sherlock, we’re walking away too soon!”

“John, relax. I’ve got this all under control.” Sherlock paused for a moment and recalculated, muttering, “All right, walk a little slower.”

Molly‘s head swirled. James had warned her against exactly what these two men were proposing. She pondered the consequences of telling James or following Sherlock. She looked up at the portrait, pleading for the Tsar to give her answers and tell her what to do. But he stood stoically, his face firmly set yet gentle. The other members of the family waiting gently for her decision. If Molly wasn’t the Duchess, then there wasn’t anything to report to James about, she figured. There was no danger. She looked over her shoulder as Sherlock and John slowly walked away, back at the portrait, down to Toby, and then back to the two men.

Sherlock grinned smugly and counted down on his fingers. “Three... two... one...” When he opened his palm, Molly’s voice echoed down the ballroom.

“Sherlock!”

John laughed gleefully. “Right in the palm of our hands!” he cheered in a whisper.

“Sherlock, wait!” Molly shouted. Sherlock turned around finally.

“I’m sorry, did you call?” he asked dumbly.

As Molly descended the stairs, she explained, “If I don’t remember who I am, then who’s to say I’m not the Duchess, right?”

“Yes?” Sherlock encouraged.

“And if I’m not Margaret Hooper, then the Empress will know right away! So it would just be an honest mistake! The rumours would be proven false and there would be no danger!”

Sherlock pretended to contemplate it. “Sounds plausible.”

“And if you are Margaret Hooper,” John added, “then you’d finally know who you are and have your family back.”

“You know, he’s right. Either way it gets you to London.”

Molly squealed. She didn’t remember when she had last felt happy. Toby meowed as she picked him up and hugged him tightly, spinning around joyfully. “Toby, we’re going to London!”

The three partners discussed their plans to catch next week’s train and how to find the Dowager Empress. As they talked, not paying any mind to how far their voices echoed out the ballroom and through the palace, a man clad in a white coat, hidden underneath the opposite staircase, listened to their discussions.

“Margaret Hooper?” he whispered in confusion. “Margaret Hooper’s alive?” The relic he clutched tightly opened independently and poured out its contents. The green mist trailed like a snake into the shadows and the man watched it wide-eyed. When the mist disappeared completely, out stepped a pair of black shoes. Trailing up the body and to the face, he whispered disbelievingly, “Moriarty!”

With a dead smile on his face and soulless black eyes, Moriarty asked, “Did you miss me?”


	5. Chapter 5

The walls of the government office were grey and plain. Moriarty entered stone faced and closed the door behind his partner. He had insisted on silence until they entered his office.

“Moriarty! You’re alive!” Sebastian finally cried once the door clicked in place.

“In a manner of speaking,” Moriarty quipped as he seated himself at his desk. His head dropped onto the top of his chair. “Something has happened, Sebastian. I can feel the dark forces stirring.”

“I’m not surprised, sir; I saw her! Margaret Hooper!”

“Aha!” Moriarty stood and stalked to the window. “So I was right! That Romanov brat  _ is _ still alive. That’s why I’m stuck in limbo. My curse is unfulfilled.”

Sebastian added humorously, “Well considering how long you’ve been dead, you look pretty good.”

“I was stuck under the ice for eight years,” Moriarty sneered venomously. “When I was finally fished out and had heard the rumour of Margaret’s return, I knew I had to do something to bring an end to the Romanov family forever.” He took in the city outside of the snowy window. “Russia. Look at what’s become of it. Slums. Petty thieves. It was once so powerful—and I nearly the most powerful man in it! My curse made each of the royals pay.” He turned and slammed his fists in his desks, shouting, “But one little girl got away!”

Sebastian stood silent and small as Moriarty‘s head fell. “If only I hadn’t lost the gift from the dark forces.”

“You mean this?”

Moriarty looked up. From Sebastian’s hand dangled his lost reliquary. With a small gasp and wide eyes, Moriarty reached for it. The mist inside grew and swirled actively. “My old friend, finally together again. Revenge will finally be mine! Little Margret beware: Moriarty’s awake! My dear, here’s the sign: it’s the end of the line!”

“It’s good to see you back, sir,” said Sebastian. “What should we do about Molly?”

Moriarty pondered for a moment. “Another rumour on the street, another girl to apprehend. One more pretender will no longer play pretend.” With a simple snap, Sebastian’s white coat transformed into a Soviet uniform.

“Colonel General Sebastian,” Moriarty said coolly with a smile, “spread the word of want of Molly’s arrest.”

“Come on, or we’ll miss the train. Stop fidgeting; you’re a Duchess, remember? Stand up straight. And stop—“ Sherlock got fed up and took the necklace out of Molly’s anxious hands. After making an exasperated face at Toby, who walked dutifully next to her leg, Molly crossed her arms and pouted.

“How do you know what duchesses do or don’t do?” she asked, unknowingly beginning to fidget with her necklace again.

Without looking at her, Sherlock answered, “I make it my business to know.” He shifted the two bags under his arms and, after quickly looking around, began weaving his way through the crowd. He looked around when they stopped in line for the train, and then once more after he had checked their boarding passes.

“John must’ve just gotten lost in the crowd,” Molly reassured him. “I’m sure he’ll find us before the train gets here.”

“I’m not looking for John,” replied Sherlock impatiently. “I’m looking for any officers. We don’t exactly have real passes.”

Molly pouted again and wondered if reuniting with her family was worth bearing Sherlock’s constant attitude. She looked around at the crowd as they waited. So many faceless people. She wondered curiously where they were all going. Did they have a family? What have they lived through?

Sherlock was about to reprimand Molly for falling on him until he saw her face white as a sheet and her eyes unfocused.

“Molly?” he tried, panic in his voice against his better attempt to hide it. He caught her just before her knees gave out. She grabbed onto his sleeve. “Molly what’s wrong?”

Molly’s eyes continued to look around, though not focusing on anything. “I remember,” she mumbled, “a train station. So many people. And someone. Someone calling out... for... for  _ me _ ? Could it have been my family? I was cold... and scared.”

“Molly.” Sherlock shook her firmly and she finally looked at him in the eye. She regained her balance and let go of his sleeve. “Molly what happened?”

“It was... just a sliver of my memory. I remember being at a train station.”

“What else do you remember?”

Molly strained to reach farther into the memory, but it closed up. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, shaking her head as her chin quivered. “I don’t remember.”

Sherlock stood up straight and nodded. He wasn’t angry at her, just disappointed at the prospect of another lost memory. Another step to go in finding Margaret Hooper. Another step farther in convincing the Dowager Hudson that she was the real article.

Once more Sherlock looked around. This time he spotted three officers entered the station. They looked around and pointed when they saw Sherlock and Molly.

“There! Quickly! Step aside, we have orders to arrest!”

“Follow me!” Sherlock urged to Molly. He grabbed their two bags and began to run away from the officers. Molly scooped up Toby and followed closely behind him, but pausing for people to pass in front of her allowed an officer to grab her arm.

Sherlock turned at her cry and shouted, “Molly!”

Just as he began to run back to free her, another officer seized him. The third dragged over a confused John.

“Nice of you to join us,” Sherlock remarked as John huffed next to him.

“We have orders for your arrest,” said one of the officers to Molly.

“Hers!?” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Please come with us.”

The officer pulled Molly by her arm towards the doors and the two others pushed Sherlock and John into following. Molly, frightened, looked back at Sherlock and he gave her a nod to encourage her compliance. He then leaned over to John and whispered, “John, your boarding pass.”

John discreetly placed the pass in Sherlock’s open hand, and with the three of them, he stepped towards the tracks and threw them across the ground. They slid across the floor and fell down into the tracks. One of the officers attempted to retrieve them, but at that moment the train had arrived.

“Sir, we found the girl. She’s just outside.”

“Excellent. Bring her in.”

Molly was sat down, tugging at her cuffs and worrying her lip. Toby jumped into her lap and she held him closely. When Moriarty turned around, she smiled.

“James!” she cried in relief. “It’s good to see you again!”

“Molly,” James breathed with a smile. He sat down at his desk. “It’s good to see you too, though I wished it had been under friendlier circumstances.” For a moment he paused. “Do you know why you were brought in?”

Molly froze. She did, but found herself shaking her head.

James drew in a long breath and sat back in his chair. “There were reports... rumours... of two men who plan to find the lost princess Margaret Hooper and reunite her with the Dowager Empress. You understand that my job requires me to investigate and put an end to this plan. Margaret Hooper  _ is _ dead. You did promise me you would tell me if you heard anything in Leningrad.”

Molly could do nothing but stare at James. She was petrified, and swallowed thickly.

James squinted at her silence and sighed. He stood and turned to the window.

“Be very careful of these rumours that prevail,” his voice rumbled in warning. “Be very careful what you say. I was a boy who lived the truth behind the tale of the Romanov execution. No one got away.”

James heard Molly’s small voice ask, “What happened?” He turned to her and could tell she wasn’t lying. She really didn’t know.

He strode to the front of his desk and leaned back onto it, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes watched a memory that played in his head. “I saw the royal children as the soldiers closed the gates.” He looked at Molly in the eyes. “I saw the youngest daughter and her pride. I remember my father left the night they met their fate, his pistol by his side.”

He looked away and said plainly, “The Neva flows; a new wind blows. And soon it will be spring.”

He looked at Molly again and shifted uncomfortably as he said, “I heard shots. I heard the screams.” He paused and his focus faded. “But it’s the silence after I remember the most. The world stopped breathing... and I was no longer a boy.”

Tense and uneasy silence filled the room. Molly sat gaping at James’s words.

He continued, “That night I wondered where he was leaving to. My father shook his head and told me not to ask. My mother said he died of shame. But I believe he did a proud and vital task.”

The portrait on the wall sat in the shadows of a stern man with a trimmed moustache and a similar olive uniform, which James now strode to. “And in my father’s name, I will finish it. The leaves unfold; the Tsar lies cold.”

Molly could only see the side of his honest face as he wondered, “Could I have pulled the trigger if I’d been told?”

The room was suffocatingly silent.

“Be careful what a dream may bring,” James warned, and then chuckled quietly. “A revolution is a simple thing,” he muttered.

The officer who opened the door broke the silence. “Sir?” he asked, somewhat flustered.

James turned to him. “What is it, Sebastian?”

From the other room was heard Sherlock’s muffled shouting, and then a crash. Molly and James rushed out of the room.

Several guards surrounded Sherlock and looked ready to pounce on him, in much the same way a group of men would look trying to tackle a feral dog. Sherlock lurched a different direction to avoid several guards as they lunged towards him, dragging a haggard John behind him, with whom he shared a pair of handcuffs.

“What’s going on out here?” James cried, silencing all of the shouting. The guards stood embarrassed and at attention. Even Sherlock stopped, giving John a rest.

“I think we’re done here,” James continued as he turned to Molly. It seemed for the first time that when she looked back up at him, he noticed her eyes.

He knew those eyes.

_ The Romanov eyes _ .

As he stood in silent shock, Molly asked, “Are my partners allowed to leave, too?”

James shook his thoughts away and nodded. “Yes, you’re free to go.” He eyed the two men standing at a distance. “Uncuff them,” he ordered. Once the cuffs were off, John stepped away and rubbed his wrist as Sherlock strode to Molly.

“My apologies for making you late for your train,” James deadpanned insincerely to Sherlock. The two eyed each other suspiciously and Molly stood in between them.

“Thank you, James.” Molly’s voice brought his eyes back down.  _ Those eyes again _ .

James nodded blankly and could only stand in silence. He watched Molly pull Sherlock and John by the sleeves as the three left the building. Silently, he entered his office again.

The sound of James’s pacing footsteps was the only noise in the otherwise dead room. His mind reeled as he went over the facts.

“But she’s dead!” James hissed despairingly to himself. “She can’t be alive!”

Moriarty collapsed in his chair and buried his face in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the story starts to thicken, please keep in mind that I don’t consider myself a writer. I apologize if there are any painfully obvious plot holes or inconsistencies. I tried to catch as many as I could find, but I’m sure there are some that slipped my watch. I just wrote this to have fun and I wanted to share it so that others could enjoy it, too:)


	6. Chapter 6

The cold wind bit the three as they left the government building, and they each buried themselves deeper in their coats—Molly shared her coat with Toby and buttoned him in so he stayed put. Sherlock sighed and a cloud marked his hot breath before dissipating. Together they made for shelter for the night.

“We’ll have to catch the train tomorrow,” said Sherlock. “And somehow find a way to get three new boarding passes—“

“Hey,  _ freak_.”

The three stopped. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Anderson,” he groaned, turning around. “Nice to see you.”

Two figures approached them. Anderson, with dirt smudging his face and his coat rather ragged, sneered at Sherlock’s remark.

“Planning another scam are you?”

“I could ask you the same,” Sherlock replied cooly. “And how long is your wife away this time?”

John and Molly looked at Sherlock surprisedly. Anderson made a noise somewhere between shock and disgust.

“Don’t pretend you worked that out!” he cried. “Someone told you!”

“Donovan told me,” he answered.

All four turned to the other figure with Anderson, who looked offended at being accused.

“Me?” she exclaimed. “I said nothing of the sort!”

“You’re alone in an abandoned alleyway at night. There’s not much to look into.”

Anderson started, “Now look, whatever you’re suggesting—“

“I’m not suggesting anything! I’m sure you’re just having a nice little stroll!” He paused and then smirked. “And I assume your wife knows, since she’s been regularly traveling to France for the past three months to visit her lover.”

Within seconds, Anderson’s fist connected with Sherlock’s cheek. There were several more blows before John wrangled Anderson off of him, and Molly helped pick up Sherlock from the ground.

“That’s enough!” John shouted and pushed Anderson away, standing in between the two.

Anderson spat on the ground and shouted at Sherlock over John’s shoulder, “ _Psychopath_!”

Sherlock held a steady expression. The two groups parted, and everyone except Sherlock glanced over their shoulders to eye the other side until they were out of sight.

The warm light of an old nearby tavern drew the group inside. The tavern was crowded and Molly had to strain to hear anything that John or Sherlock said to her, but it was warm so they rented a room. John easily gave the one-person bed to Molly, assuring her that he’d be fine to sleep in the nearby chair, and Sherlock took a spot on the floor, though he said he wouldn’t be sleeping.

As the night grew later, the rowdy bar-goers seemed to quiet down slightly. Sherlock had retreated to the roof, and Molly found him to give him a bowl of soup. He took it but set it down beside him and continued to look over the city.

Molly wrapped her coat tighter, kissing Toby’s head when he stirred, and gazed at Sherlock. The wind whipped the dark curls on his forehead this way and that, and the cut on his cheek was barely visible over the collar of his wool coat. The rest of his face—including his swollen lip—could be seen when he looked over at Molly when she asked a question.

“Who were those people we met in the alleyway?” She could see his face now: pale and deep in thought. He rolled his eyes.

“Anderson and Donovan,” he remarked with distaste. “Anderson was an old colleague of mine. We stole on the street together. He was always jealous of my ability to steal things easier than he could and he’s hated me for it ever since.”

Molly absently stroked Toby’s head who purred against her and she asked, “Where you always a thief?”

Sherlock leaned back on his elbows. “You could say. My parents died when I was three, leaving me with my brother Mycroft. We had to make a living somehow so he taught me how to steal—and to survive. I grew up on the sly in the gutters and the streets of Petersburg.” He paused to reflect. “Just a boy on the fly, getting good at getting by in Petersburg. I’ve bartered for a blanket; stolen for my bread. My brother taught me to take my chances and use my head—my mind. He always said a Russian rat is clever or he ends up dead.”

At Molly’s sympathetic face he tsked. “Listen. It boils down to this: there are some who survive and some who don’t; some give up, some give in—me? I won’t!” He chuckled with a grin. “It’s black and blue, but welcome to my Petersburg.”

He suddenly stood and pulled Molly up beside him as well, gesturing to the city ahead of them. “Here, look: standing here you can see from the spires to the piers of Petersburg.” He pointed to an empty dock by the water. “I’d be down on that quay selling stolen souvenirs of Petersburg!” he laughed. The wind brushed against his bangs and pushed his coat around behind him. “The Palace is above and alleyways below; funny how a city is all you know,” he mused to himself, and then to Molly, “How even when you hate it...”

“Something in you loves it so?” Molly finished.

Sherlock scoffed, but not unkindly, as he walked around her further down the roof. “Oh please. I don’t ‘love’ anything. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.”

“Well maybe it’s alright to lose,” Molly countered. “I love this town. It makes me feel... like I’m home. Like it’s all I’ve been and all I’ll be.”

Sherlock turned around to say, “We can do what we’re told; we can go where we’re lead. But I learned from my brother to see what’s ahead.” He looked at the city again with unkindly eyes. “There’s nothing here to hold me, there’s no one that I owe. Funny how a boy can grow. Funny how a city tells you when it’s time to go!” he shouted to the mute rooftops. They listened to his voice echo and quickly dissipate. Sherlock huffed again and walked toward the edge of the roof to sit down again.

Molly slowly sat down next to him as he continued, “It boils down to: there are some who have walls yet to climb. There’s you and I on the fly, just in time.” He stopped, his mind seemed to slow down, and his gaze lifted. His voice was surprisingly soft. “But, just for tonight, there’s a sky and quite a view.”

The stars reflected in his eyes and Molly couldn’t help but chuckle. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who’d be interested in stars.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock answered, still gazing. “But it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate them.” As he continued, Molly looked up herself and was reassured by their dim light.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. “Welcome to my Petersburg,” he said.

They sat in companionable silence, listening to the wind whistle over the rooftops and the rowdy bar attendees quiet down for the night. Only a few houses had orange windows remaining, and Molly counted how many she saw go grey.

“Where did you come from, Molly?”

Molly looked at Sherlock’s unreadable face and immediately missed the silence. But knowing that he had trusted her enough to tell her his background gave her the courage to open up as well.

Molly looked at her hands, her knees, the distant rooftops, but never at Sherlock. “They said I was found on the side of a road. There were tracks all around. It had recently snowed. In the darkness and cold with the wind in the trees: a girl with no name and no memories but these.”

“What do you remember?” Sherlock asked, and Molly thought for a moment.

“Rain against the window; sheets upon a bed; terrifying nurses whispering overhead: ‘Call the child Molly—‘ They let me pick my name.— ‘Give the child a hat.’” There was a pause and Molly shook her head. “I don’t know a thing before that.”

From the corner of her eye she could see Sherlock nod and turn over her words in his head. “And how did you get by? You don’t seem like one to steal in order to survive.”

Molly had to chortle and shake her head. “No. Travelling the back roads, sleeping in the woods, taking what I needed, and working when I could.” She added shyly, “And keeping up my courage—foolish as it seems—at night all alone in my dreams.”

Once more Sherlock’s deep voice asked another question. He was boring into her. “What did you dream?”

At the question, Molly blinked back tears and sucked in a breath. “In my dreams,” she began desperately, “the shadows call. There’s a light at the end of a hall. Then my dreams fade away, but I know it all will come back one day.” She blinked at the horizon and slowly stood, picking up her necklace between her fingers. “I dream of a city beyond all compare. Is it London? A beautiful river, a bridge by a square, and I hear a voice whisper, ‘I’ll meet you right there in London!’”

Molly paused and gasped. She hadn’t realised her hand had reached out in front of her, grasping for the faceless voice, and she pulled it back to feel the tear on her face. “London,” she whispered again. At her feet Sherlock wore an expression of disinterest that frustrated Molly.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she croaked over tears, “not to know who you are.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, though it wasn’t cynical. Molly continued, speaking down towards him as more tears streaked her face, “To have lived in the shadows and to have traveled this far! I’ve seen flashes of fire! I’ve heard the echoes of screams! But I still have this faith in the truth of my dreams!” Molly gasped for air and brought her hands to her heart, which held tightly to her pendant. “In my dreams it’s all real! And my heart has so much to reveal! And my dreams seem to say, ‘Don’t be afraid to go on. Don’t give up hope, come what may.’ Because I know it all will come back one day!”

For several long moments they looked each other in the eye and wondered whether to trust the other one. Unbeknownst to the other, they both decided to. Molly broke the gaze first, sniffled, wiped her red nose with her sleeve, and sat down next to Sherlock.

“I  _ know _ that what I’m looking for is in London,” she pressed, and then looked Sherlock squarely in the eye desperately. “I  need to go to London.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t doubt that,” he said flatly. “That’s not the problem. We don’t have boarding passes or even enough money to buy train tickets. I’ll figure out something to do by morning.”

Slowly, Molly reached deeply into her coat pocket, pulling out a grungy cloth, and Sherlock watched as she gingerly unwrapped it inside her hand. In the centre was a small, glittering diamond, no larger than Molly’s fingernail. Sherlock blinked as he looked at it, and then looked up at Molly.

“I haven’t told anybody about this,” she said nervously.

He picked it up from her palm and inspected it closely. “Where did you find this?” he asked.

“When I was found I was taken to a hospital, and as I sat on the bed I saw this—“ She nodded towards the diamond. “—sewn into my dress.”

Sherlock continued to look at it and Molly swallowed. “I think it’s enough to buy three train tickets, don’t you?”

Sherlock looked up at her question. After much thought, he nodded and placed the diamond back in her palm. “It will do just fine,” he said assuringly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory on the two. They bicker to no end, but will they ever see how similar they are? *sigh*  
> I really like this chapter—hope you enjoy it, too! :D


	7. Chapter 7

“All aboard! Everybody to Paris! All aboard!”

Sherlock led the way through the crowd until they reached the train. He ushered Molly in first and followed quickly after.

The musty air was mostly silent, save for the dull chatting from several groups. Heads turned as Molly stood in the walkway and she froze under their gaze. Sherlock stood behind her, leaned down to her ear, and whispered, “Get a grip and take a deep breath.”

Molly shivered, sucked in a breath, and continued down the train car, avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes. They chose three empty seats and situated their luggage above the seats and below before tucking into their coats and keeping their heads down. From the nearby door everyone heard the conversation:

“‘Scuse me, sir, the train’s about to set out. I have to ask you to please take a seat or catch the next train.”

In the middle of the doorway was a young man with greying hair. After a quiet sniffle and a short glance at the serviceman, he turned back to the city with glistening eyes. “Yes, I know, just... stay, I pray you. Let me have a moment. Let me say goodbye.”

He gave one more desperate look outside, entered the train, and stood in front of Molly, Sherlock, and John, still looking through the glass window. He continued and all listened to him. “To say goodbye to bridge and river, forest and waterfall, orchard, sea, and sky... It’s harsh, and sweet, and bitter to leave it all. I’ll bless my homeland till I die.”

The mood in the train grew somber and mournful. Russia, battered and bruised, and everyone in it the same, was still home. It seemed everybody turned to look out the window, gazing at the homeland they were leaving behind.

The farewell was continued by the same man. “How to break the tie? We have shed our tears and shed our sorrows. Though the scars remain and tears will never dry, I’ll bless my homeland till I die.”

A wave swept over the three and they pondered leaving Russia.

Molly, broken at the thought of leaving, wondered under her breath, “Never to return?”

Contrarily, Sherlock, tired of the dreary days of his life in Russia, was elated. “Finally breaking free.”

Molly kept looking through the window as Petersburg was swept away faster and faster. “You were all I’ve known,” she mourned.

Together they said to their country, “You have raised me.”

On the other side of Sherlock, John sat and wondered as well, “How to turn away? How to close the door?”

In one thought, the whole train car asked, “How to go where I have never gone before? How can I desert you? How to tell you why? Coachman hold the horses—stay, I pray you. Let me have a moment. Let me say goodbye.”

Molly was the first to say it. “I’ll bless my homeland.”

Then John, “I’ll bless my homeland.”

Sherlock gave in. “I’ll bless my homeland.”

Once more, in one sorrowful thought, all the passengers promised, “I’ll bless my homeland till I die.”

The noises of the train brushed away the heavy thoughts as if they were fog, and just like that, the mood was gone. Over time some people had moved around the car, but most sat with their heads down, including Molly and Sherlock, who sat quietly in companionable silence. Molly ventured to look up from Toby, who sat curled in her lap, and at the rest of the car. The young man who led the prayer of farewell stood just in front of her, his hand up above him resting on the overhead railing. Something about him felt familiar, but Molly dismissed the thought. As she looked at him, though, he turned to her and their eyes met. He gasped and slowly dropped to one knee.

“Her imperial highness,” he breathed in wonder.

Molly sat in shock and confusion. “Huh?”

“It’s you, the Grand Duchess,” he tried again with a smile and shining eyes.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we know each other,” Molly answered shyly.

“Yes, yes, it  _ is _ you! My name is Count Gregory Lestrade. I wouldn’t think you would remember, but my father was your coachman. When you were a little girl he used to take you around the palace in his carriage. I often accompanied him. When you would step out, I would hold your hand and take your coat.” He said all this with a watery smile. Then he picked up Molly’s hand and kissed it.

Molly looked at the kind man, searched through her mind in desperate hopes to remember him, but then shook her head slowly. She said sadly, “I’m sorry, sir. You must mistake me for somebody else.”

Yet still he insisted, “No, no! I’m sure it’s you! Your hair, your eyes, your face, hands—I could recognise you anywhere! You’re the Grand Duchess Margaret Hooper!”

His hand was quickly caught by Sherlock’s, who removed Molly’s hand from his gentle hold. “It would be wise not to say things like that out loud,” Sherlock warned darkly. He quickly glanced around to see several eyes upon them that quickly darted back to their laps or their newspapers.

The three turned at the sound of the car door opening. John hurried over and sat down, muttering to Sherlock, “We need to get out of here.”

Releasing Lestrade’s hand, Sherlock leaned into John and hissed, “What?”

“There are guards coming to check boarding passes.”

Sherlock sat back and swore under his breath. “They couldn’t just check tickets?” he complained in exasperation. After a beat of thought, he said, “Get the luggage and head to the baggage car. We’ll be right behind you.”

John picked up as many bags and suitcases as he could and led the way. Sherlock grabbed Molly by the arm and stood her up, following quickly, but they were stopped when Lestrade grabbed her hand once more.

There was a gentle smile on his face. “Your Majesty,” he said quietly with a nod. Then he leaned forward to press a kiss to Molly’s cheek. Molly stood speechless and gently touched her cheek, when Sherlock tugged on her arm again and pulled her away. They held each other’s gaze until the door to the next train shut between them, and Molly wondered as they travelled to the baggage car if she truly was the Grand Duchess.

As they were moving, the train lurched side to side for a moment before settling back down. Several passengers exclaimed and looked around worriedly. Sherlock and Molly had stopped for a moment and looked at each other, but Sherlock nodded to continue on.

In the baggage car, John had already situated their luggage by the time Sherlock opened the door and helped Molly in. She looked around suspiciously, holding Toby closely under her arm as John and Sherlock whispered to each other.

“She can’t stay here,” whimpered John, rubbing his arms, “She’ll freeze in here.”

“She can thaw in Paris,” muttered Sherlock, wrapping his greatcoat tighter.

“The baggage car,” Molly stated, then turned to the two men with a suspicious glance. “There’s nothing wrong with out papers, is there, gentlemen?”

They both, of course, shook their heads and cooed reassuringly, but Molly smiled slyly and knew better.

“Of course not, your grace,” said Sherlock with a pretend smile. “It’s just I hate to see you forced to mingle with all those commoners.”

Molly rolled her eyes at his act. The train shook again and the three fell silent, looking up at the car.

“What was that?” John asked.

Over Molly’s shoulder, Toby hissed at the door leading to the front of the train. The train rocked violently and the three fell over. As the howling wind suddenly began to screech, they saw the door to the baggage car torn away and they watched as the rest of the train slowed to a stop behind him.

“There goes the dining car!” John cried over the rushing wind.

Sherlock stumbled to his feet and opened the other door. He shed his coat and shoved it into Molly’s arms. “Something’s not right,” he shouted over the noise as he began to climb the rungs on the coal car. “Wait here, I’ll check it out.”

The coals didn’t make for an easy walking, and several times Sherlock stumbled and nearly fell off the car. He finally dropped down into the locomotive, squinting to see through the blinding fire that bursted from the engine.

In front of the engine with a shovel of coal in hand, there was a uniformed soldier, evidently feeding more and more coal into the fire. It turned when Sherlock dropped into the car and lunged at him. They fell to the ground and Sherlock used the shovel to keep it at bay. Up close, Sherlock could see the soldier’s face was translucent and glowed a luminescent shade of green. The soldier snapped its mouth at Sherlock, and cried in a voice that wasn’t human. After struggling, Sherlock worked his foot against its stomach and pushed it up and backwards into the licking flames of the engine. The soldier shrieked and Sherlock hit it with the back of the shovel he still held. In a cloud of green mist, the soldier transformed into a bat-like creature and flew out of the car window.

Sherlock stood panting with his mind racing, processing what had just happened, only for a few moments before the engine exploded and Sherlock fled from the car.

Molly watched gravely as the tracks beneath them raced past at an insurmountable speed. She turned to John and cried over the train wheels and howling wind, “We’re going way too fast!”

At that moment Sherlock dropped down from the top of the coal car. “Nobody’s driving this train,” he said, his mind still reeling. As genius as he was, he couldn’t find a way to explain what he had seen. “We’re going to have to jump!” He made his way to the car door and pulled it open. The three looked out and down into the plummeting cliffs that dropped just outside the car.

Molly looked up at Sherlock and quipped, “After you!”

Standing back up, Sherlock rolled his eyes, the curls on his forehead whipping to and fro. “Fine!” He made his way back to the coal car. “We’ll have to uncouple the cars!”

John dragged over a heavy toolbox and began digging through.

“I need a wrench, an axe, anything!” Sherlock pressed impatiently. John passed over a hammer and Sherlock began welting it against the coupling which, to his surprise, seemed to be fused together, and it promptly broke the hammer. He tossed the handle aside and called to John, “There’s gotta be something in there better than that!”

John looked through the box again and Molly searched around the luggage. Toby had taken refuge beside a crate and Molly read the label that was printed on it in bold red. Sherlock waited with his hand outstretched looking at the fused coupling, deducing what could have done that and connecting it to the phantom soldier in the locomotive, when another tool was placed in his hand. He brought the lit stick of dynamite in front of his face, then looked up at Molly who had just delivered it, and then quickly worked it into a groove in the metal.

“That’ll work!” he cried, leaping into the baggage car and ushering John and Molly behind a pile of luggage. “Go, go, go!” They fell in a heap and Sherlock used his body to guard Molly. He thought for a moment and said, with the slightest hint of a smile on his face, “What do they teach you in those mortuaries?”

The dynamite exploded and detached the baggage car from the fiery locomotive. Parts of the car caught fire and Sherlock fanned his coat over them to put it out while John quickly turned the braking wheel.

John cried, “The brakes are out!”

“Turn harder!” Sherlock replied.

As John did so, the brake broke and he fell backwards, the wheel still clutched in his hands. Molly and John looked at Sherlock expectantly, who turned and looked at the train tracks in front of them.

“At the speed we’re going we’ll coast to a stop by the time we’re almost on the other side of the bridge. We’ll have to get across the rest of the tracks and make our way on foot to the next city.”

The earth shook and the three were thrown around the floor of the baggage car, John tripping backwards over a pile of suitcases and Sherlock and Molly landing on each other. None of them had looked up in time to see the bridge crushed under a screeching creature of smoke before its green light dissipated into the black night, its cry only sounding like the violent howling of the wind. When they had looked up, they simply saw the destroyed remains of the tracks that they had been counting on to slow to a stop.

“You were saying?” Molly turned to Sherlock and asked pointedly.

Sherlock frowned at her and thought of another plan. “I’ve got an idea,” he began as he moved to the back exit of the car. “John, give me a hand with this!” Sherlock dropped from the edge of the car and swung under. “Now hand me the chain!” Molly heard him shout.

Looking over, John had no luck getting back up, try as he might, so Molly took up the end of the chain and leaned over the edge of the car.

At the sight of Molly, Sherlock groaned. “Not you!”

“John’s busy at the moment!” Molly barked back. She passed him the chain and he hooked it around a piece of metal beneath the car which immediately snapped and ricocheted as it sped out from under the car. Sherlock lost his balance and faced falling against the speeding tracks beneath but Molly caught him by his shirt. Their eyes met for a moment. Attaching the hook once more and making sure to secure it tightly, their eyes met again as she pulled him up. Molly saw something flash behind his eyes and she couldn’t tell if he was impressed or in disbelief.

He swallowed thickly and seemed to hesitate. “If we live through this,” he began unevenly, brushing off his vest, “remind me to thank you.”

After a bit of struggling, John finally got himself out, and between the three of them they shoved the rest of the chain out of the car. It soon caught on one of the track ties. The car rolled onto its side as it ripped the rail out of the ground and began screeching down the rest of the track.

Molly placed Toby and a suitcase in John’s arm, another suitcase in Sherlock’s, and then grabbed both of them. “Well, gentlemen,” she began, looking at the snow that sped past them and hoping that her plan would work, “this is our stop!” Then she jumped, pulling Sherlock and John after her. They all fell and rolled through the snow until the came to a stop right when the flaming locomotive and baggage car flew off the train tracks, fell into the ravine, and exploded in a fiery crash.

Sitting up, they found each other half buried in snow. Molly had brushed the snow from Toby, who shook the dampness off and shivered slightly. They stood up, picked up what little of their luggage remained, and began to make their way on foot to the nearest town.

At his desk, Moriarty shot up and yelled, sliding papers off of his desk in fury. From behind his closed eyes he had watched the events happen and saw his attempt to end the last Romanov be thwarted. Sebastian entered the room at his cry.

“Sir?”

“Gather troops!” Moriarty barked. “We’re going after Molly! Stop her before she reaches London or she and her hag grandmother will try to destroy everything I’ve worked for! Find her and bring her back—alive!”


	8. Chapter 8

For many miles they travelled on foot until they reached the next city, and from there, they would take a bus to Paris. From there, a boat to London. And from there, Sherlock said to Molly, was his business and she needn’t worry about it. He had a plan to get a meeting with the Dowager Empress and all she would have to do is remember. The thought of reuniting the two royalty entered his mind before the thought of running away with the money did, and that troubled Sherlock.

As they waited on the side of a dirt road, Molly commented on how happier John seemed to be of late.

John stood in front of Molly and Sherlock, who sat leaning back against a tree with his eyes closed. John shrugged in admittance.

“We’re soon to see Mary.” His smitten smile was infectious.

Sherlock’s eyes shot open and he gave John a warning look.

“Who’s Mary?” Molly asked, absentmindedly stroking Toby, who was curled at her feet.

“Who’s Mary?” John repeated. His voice was dreamy and he smiled. “The Dowager Hudson’s beautiful lady-in-waiting! We met during a royal dinner. You know I used to work in the palace?” John laughed. “I was smitten when I first saw her! That was actually how I came to be in cahoots with Sherlock. Two years after first finding him bleeding in an alleyway I asked him for his help, after hearing his reputation build up around Russia. I planned to ask Mary for her hand and had Sherlock pave a way to get into and escape from the palace.” John sighed, looking down at the dirt road, the smile still on his face. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. I hope Mary’s happy to see me.” He then laughed at his fretting. “Be honest, John Watson! How could she not be!”

John glanced over himself and shrugged. “I may have gotten fatter—“

“Seven pounds, to be exact, since she last saw you. I don’t think marital life would do you any good on that aspect,” Sherlock added curtly, his head still leaning back.

“Shut up, Sherlock! But maybe that won’t matter.” He then straightened out and said confidently, “The bottom line is: I’ll win her.”

Sherlock shot Molly a glance that told her the opposite was true. Molly giggled quietly as John continued his plan.

“We’ll do some reminiscing—she’ll see what she’s been missing—over wine—“ John gasped. “And dinner!”

Sherlock groaned and Molly laughed again.

John ran a hand through his hair and thought, “And though, I know, I’ve grown a tiny bit grey—“

“Really, John, it’s a miracle if Mary recognises you.”

“Some women say I look distinguished this way! I’ll bow as if I’m still a frisky young pup!”

Sherlock lifted his head and his nose crinkled. “Who said that?”

John stated proudly, “The two women at the bar.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Them?! It’s no wonder they said that. You were crying all over them.” He leaned over to Molly. “That was the day John failed to kidnap Mary.”

“Sherlock!”

He rolled his eyes. “Right. Sorry.  _ Elope _ with Mary. John was then convinced that Mary wasn’t interested in him any more. I had to drag him away from these two cabaret performers at the bar. I had thought that you moved on from Mary and were hitting on them. Apparently it was the other way around.”

“Anyway!” John cried, attempting to steer away the conversation, but Molly just sat giggling at the story. John adjusted his cap and dusted off his vest. “Let’s just hope that I can straighten up. We’ll ask for an appointment. If she’s says no? Well...” His expression faltered and Molly could see a flash of panic behind his eyes. “Well, then we’ll all lay low and go from there.”

Molly frowned. “Says no? Appointment? What do you mean?”

John glanced at Sherlock, who groaned under his breath.

Molly turned to him and warned, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock hesitantly complied. “No one sees the Dowager without convincing Mary first.”

Molly thought. “Convincing her of what?” she demanded.

Sherlock’s look answered.

Molly gasped. “No,” she said. “No!” She stood up. “No! No one said I had to prove I was the Grand Duchess!”

Sherlock stood and tried to reason, “Look—“

“The deal was you would take me to London and they would tell me if I was the Grand Duchess! I’ll show up and look nice, yes, but I won’t lie to them!”

“You don’t know it’s a lie!” argued Sherlock. “What if it’s true? It’s just one more stop on the road but it’s something you have to see through to the end!”

Molly faced Sherlock. “Look at me, Sherlock. I’m not Grand Duchess material! My hands are shaking, my heart is thundering. How are you going to introduce me? ‘And here is her Imperial Highness, the Royal Mess!’ You can’t make me into something that I’m not, Sherlock! I’m starting to wonder why I ever said yes!”

With a firm stomp in the dirt, Molly stormed off. John and Sherlock watched as she went and shared a helpless look. Later, John found Molly looking into the water passing under a bridge. He walked gently next to her and leaned on the railing, too.

Sherlock drove Molly crazy, but John she didn’t mind as much. He was much gentler when it came to the emotional side of things. She appreciated his silence: his presence was distant, but still comforting, and he waited until she spoke first.

“Look at the bridge, look at the water.“ She shrugged. “Must be somebody’s bridge.” Her gaze was fixated on her rippling reflection. “Somebody’s daughter. Who could’ve known I’d be alone crossing this bridge?”

John still listened, a gentle expression on his face. Molly finally mustered courage enough to look him in the eye. The water below rippled as Molly’s tear fell in.

“I’m halfway between where I’ve been and where I’m going. In between wondering why and finally knowing.”

When she went quiet, still looking at her reflection, John asked, “Who do you see?”

She tossed down a pebble, which disrupted the image. “I see a skinny little nobody,” she spat, “with no past... and no future.”

John smiled kindly. “I see a remarkable, intelligent woman, who shows courage, command, and character. It’s more than once that I’ve seen you make Sherlock look guilty. Truly, not many people are capable of that. I’ve known Sherlock long enough to know that if he doesn’t think something is worth his time, then he won’t bother with it. He sees everything, and he saw you, Molly.”

Molly dropped a twig into the water. “I don’t count.”

John frowned and opened his mouth to speak before Sherlock appeared on the other side of Molly. A grin was on his face and he asked brightly, “So, are you ready to become to Grand Duchess Margaret Hooper?”

Molly groaned, rolled her eyes, and stepped away.

John hit Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I thought you had already convinced her!” Sherlock defended, his voice low so as not to be heard by Molly.

“I was trying to, you git!” was John’s hissed reply. He called out to Molly, “There’s nothing left for you back there.” She stopped and turned around. “Everything is in London.”

The two men waited rather anxiously as Molly looked away in thought. “How do you become the person you’ve forgotten you ever were?”

They both smiled. John took a step forward. “Take a deep breath; close your eyes, and imagine another time—another world!”

Molly heard John’s story from behind her eyelids, “You were born in a palace by the sea.”

“A palace by the sea?” she thought, opening her eyes. “Could it be?” she asked John.

“Yes, it’s so,” he answered. “You rode horseback when you were only three.”

Molly scoffed. “Horseback riding?  _ Me _ ?”

John asked Sherlock panically, “The horse’s name?”

“Romeo,” Sherlock answered flatly.

“He was white,” John continued. “You made faces and terrorised the cooks!” He laughed. “How the palace shook!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered, “Charming child.”

With a look that almost made Molly feel guilty, John resumed, “But you’d behave when your father gave that look.”

“Imagine how it was,” Sherlock urged.

“Your long forgotten past!”

“We’ve lots and lots to teach you and the time is going fast!”

A deep breath, and Molly said, “Gentlemen, start your teaching!”

John went to the other side of the bridge, instructing, “Let’s see you walk. Head up! Regal bearing! Now shoulders back—stand up tall! No, don’t walk—try to float!”

Attempting to follow all of his instructions, Molly whispered to Sherlock who walked beside her, “I feel a little foolish. Am I floating yet?”

“Like a sinking boat,” he replied with a smirk, to which Molly playfully smacked his arm.

Molly reached John and he further instructed, “You give a bow.”

Her arms extended, she dipped down, surprising John and Sherlock by how gracefully fluid it was. “What happens now?”

“Your hand receives a kiss!”

Sherlock took one of Molly’s outstretched hands and kissed the back of it, smirking as she turned to him. Their eyes held each other for a moment and something passed momentarily.

John reclaimed her attention, “Most of all remember this: if I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it, too!”

On the bus towards Paris, Sherlock and John further groomed Molly into the Duchess Margaret Hooper, training her at every turn. They sat on the bus and Molly practiced with a bowl and a spoon.

“Elbows in. Sit up straight,” Sherlock prodded, “And don’t slurp the stroganoff! Remember: the semovar, the caviar, then—“

“Dessert!” Molly cried. “And then goodnight?” Her confidence wavered at their look of disappointment.

“You’ve got to get this right, Molly,” said Sherlock impatiently. “Who is your great-grandmother?”

“Queen Victoria,” Molly answered easily.

“Great-great-grandmother?”

Molly hesitated. “Princess Victoria of Saxe-Colburg-Saalfeld.”

“Your best friend is—“

Molly smiled. “My little brother, Alexei.”

She was startled when Sherlock buzzed, “Wrong! Your best friend is—“

“I know who my best friend is,” Molly countered with a frown.

“I don’t like being contradicted,” Sherlock muttered.

“Continuing on!” John warned to avoid another argument.

Sherlock proceeded to overload Molly with a surplus of cousins and Dukes and Counts with their names and appearances and habits, all the while not giving her time to think before giving the answer himself. He listed off everything at lightning speed, as if it were first nature to him.

The whole bus turned when Molly stood up and screamed, “I’ve had it!” She stood up and stormed to the top deck of the bus. When John climbed after her later, he found her in the back row, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her head tucked down, and one hand out for Toby to rub against. Molly lifted her head when John picked up Toby, who mewled in protest, and placed him in his lap.

“Get out,” Molly told him weakly. “I’m sorry that we ever met. I’m hungry, and I’m frightened, and I’m only human, don’t forget. I don’t remember anything. Just let me be.” She tucked her head back down.

“Molly, look at me,” John said kindly. Molly raised her red eyes. “We’re all frightened—even Sherlock, now and then. You have courage and strength you barely know. If I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it. Something in you knows that there’s nothing to it. Pull yourself together and we’ll pull through it. Tell yourself it’s easy and it’s true. You can learn to do it.” He stood up with Toby tucked under his arm and extended his other hand to Molly. “Shall we start again? A princess like your majesty can do this if she tries.”

Molly sat in thought for a moment. John believed in her, but Sherlock didn’t. With a firm resolve she decided to prove him wrong. She would learn all of her family’s names and personalities to show him that she is more than a nameless orphan. Molly stood up, marched down the stairs of the bus, and halted in front of Sherlock, who looked up at her confusedly.

One deep breath and at the speed which Sherlock often used when spouting relations and deductions, Molly shot off about the caviar, the stroganoff, the samovar, and the feathered hat; how the cousin drank, how the Duke was short and had a wart and a cat, and how the horse’s name was Romeo and that was nothing new.

Sherlock sat in his seat looking up at her, his jaw slack. The bus applauded and Sherlock and John shared a cry of joy and success. Sherlock jumped up suddenly and took up Molly around the waist, spinning her around in his excitement.

As the bus stopped to pick up more passengers, Molly and John chattered excitedly but Sherlock fell into a silent ponder.

His plan was one step closer to being realised. Molly would find her family. And he would be rewarded handsomely for his actions. He couldn’t understand why that thought troubled him. It was his original plan—what had changed? He looked over at Molly. Had he really been so focused on obtaining the reward money that he hadn’t noticed how brown her eyes were? Or how her hair had grown over the months, and now swung around her shoulders? Sherlock shook his head. No, of course he‘d been too focused, as he should have.

At that moment, as Molly and John conversed, as Sherlock debated with himself, and as the other passengers were wholly engaged in their own affairs, nobody noticed the two figures enter the bus, with their fur hats low on their foreheads and the thin trail of green mist that followed them to the back of the bus. Sebastian sat with his hand in his pocket, readied on his pistol, and Moriarty sat with his hand in his coat, clutching his reliquary.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re halfway through! I hope you guys are liking it! I feel like this is where things start to speed up and get interesting!

The noise, the lights, and the spectacle of Paris amazed Molly. She gasped at the dazzling buildings as John nervously led the way into a night club, renowned for its ex-royalty attendees.

A howl of laughter rang as soon as the three entered the bar. Sherlock quickly spotted a large huddle that overtook the centre of the room and pointed, saying, “There.”

With slow steps, John walked towards the laughing crowd, twisting his hat in his hands. The closer they got, the clearer they could distinguish what was being said. In the centre of the huddled mass was a cheering blonde. Men and women sat at her feet, laughing, as she dramatically recalled the past.

Molly leaned over to John and asked in a whisper, “Who is that?”

John swallowed, his eyes riveted. “That’s Mary.”

Mary sat atop a chair that had been placed on top of the table, clothed in a lavender flapper dress, her short blonde hair bobbed in a style that matched the times, a large white mink wrap draped on her arms, and an empty glass of champagne in her gloved hand.

“Once I had a palace!” she cried, and the people around her gave a shout. “Here merely a flat! I fled with some diamonds and that was that!”

A voice from somewhere in the crowd shouted, “It’s very tragic!”

Mary gestured broadly, “Once, ladies-in-waiting were all bending a knee! Now there’s only one lady-in-waiting: Me!”

Several voices from the group added to their list of missed relics of the past:

“No fanfares!”

“Or sedan chairs!”

“No coaches!”

“Cause we sold our broaches!”

“No afternoon card games with the Tsar!”

“No caviar!”

Mary stood, smiling broadly and raising her glass, “But I say we’re not dead now! We’re in France instead now! Let us not be sad! The night’s young so let’s live in the Land of Yesterday!”

Two men on either side of her took her hands as she stepped down from the table. As she held out her glass to be refilled, and as another gentleman bowed low before her, she continued with a laugh, “So pour me a glass and give me a bow and drink to the ‘Countess Nobody!’ Why should I care as long as I dare to live? Here’s to Russia: the Land of Yesterday!”

Music filled the air as couples danced lively and drank freely. Sherlock kept close to Molly to keep her from any tipsy Duke who might steal her away to dance as John took another step towards Mary, whose back was towards them and who hadn’t seen them yet.

“Mary.” John’s voice was firm, hopeful, and frightened.

Molly saw Mary stiffen and then slowly turn around. The expression she wore passed momentarily from shock to joy to realisation to indignation. She marched up to John and slapped him across the face.

Molly and Sherlock gasped as John slowly recovered, his hand slowly reaching up to his cheek.

Mary barked accusingly, “You stole my diamond ring!”

From the back of his throat John gave a noise of protest before he said, “I took it so that I could propose once we were out of the palace!”

“Yes, and how well did that work out?” Her frown gave way to a smirk that made Molly smile as she watched. John continued to sputter helplessly.

“Your chaperone spotted me and sent guards after me! I had no choice but to run!”

Mary turned her face away, hiding a fond smile and trying to play it off as indifference.

As she walked towards the bar, John called after her, “Ever since that first day I saw you in the ballroom I knew I was beneath you.”

She stopped and raised her head. “You were right, darling,” she said, and turned to John, “You were.”

Finally John smiled as he realised that Mary wasn’t actually angry at him. Nothing had changed between them. Molly could see his countenance change: his back straightened and he took smooth, confident strides over to Mary as he recalled, “I noticed you across the room: you were so exquisite. Your tiara sparkled as you turned down countless suitors. I had been called into the palace as a doctor and couldn’t help but steal into the ballroom. When I saw you I flirted with you shamelessly.”

Mary added with a shrug, “Or so the scandal goes. I sent you away, too, but later that night you came back and said you weren’t done flirting with me.” She laughed.

“Bit rude, that. But I suppose you made it up when you let me sneak you out of the palace to have dinner with me.”

Mary leaned over to Molly and made her laugh by adding, “My chaperone was oblivious. He never knew a thing.”

John sighed dreamily. “And, oh, it was perfect.”

“Till you stole my diamond ring,” Mary added with a curt and tight smile, and John looked down at his shoes.

“Not classy, proposing with your own ring, I know, but I had nothing. I hadn’t even expected you to say ‘yes.’” Mary looked shocked at this and John finished, “Come on, the Countess and the common man?”

Mary continued to stare. “But I loved you,” she said matter-of-factly.

John’s smile fell and he looked dumbstruck. “You loved me?” he breathed.

At his expression Mary laughed fondly and led the way to the central room. “Who would’ve known we’re back where we began?” She stopped to lean into John. “And I suppose that you’ll propose another sneaky plan?”

When John smiled she leaned back, one hand on his chest and the other swinging dramatically to her forehead. “Which I’ll resist!”

John caught her waist and pulled her closely, announcing boldly, “Until you’re kissed!”

And they did kiss, though their expressions showed who kissed who. John’s face was red when they parted. With a laugh, Mary moved through the central room, leaving John to try to regain himself as Sherlock and Molly passed him, sniggering.

Leading the way into a private wing, Mary extended herself on a lavish couch, John at her feet, and Sherlock and Molly in nearby chairs. “So what is this sneaky plan?” she asked, looking towards Sherlock.

With a quick look to John, Sherlock announced, “Countess Mary, may I present Her Imperial Highness, the lost Princess Margaret Hooper Nikolaevna Romanov.”

There was no reaction from Mary. She just looked at Molly thoughtfully. “Come here, darling,” she said finally, sitting up and patting the space beside her. All eyes on her, Molly took her place beside Mary and struggled to take slow, deep breaths.

For an anxious eternity, Mary looked Molly up and down. She hummed several times before saying, “She certainly does look like Margaret Hooper.” She glanced sideways at Sherlock. “But then so did many of the others.” And turned back to Molly. “Where were you born?”

Molly’s heart thumped. She knew this question. “At the Peterhoff Palace.”

Mary nodded thoughtfully. “How does Margaret Hooper like her tea?”

Again, Molly’s heart thumped. She knew this one too. “I prefer coffee: black with two sugars.” That’s how Sherlock took his coffee. He had let her try it once and she had actually enjoyed it.

The questions strung on. Molly answered each one levelly, only flicking her eyes to Sherlock twice on questions that took her a second to remember. Sherlock had stood during the interview and tried not to pace the span of the room. Not now, but perhaps later he would tell Molly how impressed he’d been.

At another correct answer, Mary set down her cup of tea and looked levelly at Molly. “You might find this an impertinent question,” she began, and Sherlock stopped pacing, “but indulge me. If you are the real Margaret Hooper, then how did you escape the palace during the siege?”

Sherlock and John looked at each other. Sherlock cursed himself internally.  _ How had he not thought of that_? In fear and desperation he turned away and rested his elbows on the room’s fireplace mantel, his hand over his eyes.  _ It would come any second_, he thought.  _ Their plan was ruined_.

Molly sat in thought for a moment. Sherlock hadn’t prepared her for this question. With all the information she was given, she couldn’t tell what was her real past or her fake past. She did have an answer for Mary’s question, but was it real? Had she made it up—a simple fill-in-the-blanks—or did it happen? And did it actually happen to her?

“There...” she began, and Sherlock winced, “There was a boy...” Sherlock opened his eyes. “A boy who worked in the palace.” Molly recalled the memory slowly, waving away the dust of time to remember more. “He opened a wall.” Sherlock turned to Molly and gaped at her. Mary smiled; she saw his expression and knew.

Molly laughed at herself and all eyes were on her again. “I’m sorry. That’s crazy. Walls opening.”

“So?” Sherlock asked after a moment. “Is she a Romanov?” He sounded hopeful and desperate, asking as if he didn’t already know. Sherlock supposed it was the confirmation he sought; the second source that proved what he equally hoped for and feared.

“Whether she is or not,” began Mary, standing and taking up her empty cup of tea, “you cannot see the Dowager.”

The three gaped at her. “What?” they asked.

“The Dowager Hudson refuses to see any more girls claiming to be Margaret Hooper. She has closed the door.”

Their faces fell. Molly felt sick at the thought of coming so far to not be recognised. She didn’t care whether she was the princess or not, or whether they would accept her back in or not. It was the closure she wanted. Was she or wasn’t she Margaret Hooper?

“Do you like ballet?” Mary’s question lifted their heads again. “The Dowager is attending the Royal Ballet at the Opera House in London.” With a sly smile and a wink, she added purposely, “We _never_ miss the ballet.”

Molly, John, and Sherlock looked at each other and shared a triumphant laugh. “We’re going to London!” cried Molly as John picked her up and spun her.

Mary held aside the drape leading outside. “If you boys don’t mind, I would like to take Molly shopping.”

“Shopping in Paris!” Molly exclaimed, and took Mary’s extended hand. They tittered out and into the streets, Sherlock and John following dutifully.

Hours later, Molly stepped out of a Chanel store in a glittering yellow floral dress, a chic up-do, and a dazzling smile. The boys waited outside, each in a sleek new suit—Mary picked them out and pooh-poohed when they fussed over the prices—listening to the languid music of Paris in the night air. When the ladies came out, John nudged Sherlock to stand up straight and pay attention, unaware that he did not need prompting to do so. Sherlock was rendered wordless by Molly’s new look and was thankful that Mary broke the silence after a heartfelt smile at her group.

“Welcome, my friends, to Paris.” From a nearby flower boy she exchanged a coin for two roses, breathed in the scent, and smiled. “Here, have a flower on me,” She tucked one of them into the buttonhole on John’s lapel and handed the other to Molly, who did the same for Sherlock. Her hand rested for a moment on Sherlock’s chest and their eyes met for a moment; Molly could have sworn that she saw the corner of his mouth tug upwards and he inhaled, as if to say something, but Mary took Molly’s arm and looked at her meaningfully. “Forget where you’re from, Molly. You’re in France, child, come! I’ll show you that French _joie de vivre_! Paris holds the key to your heart!”

The city of Paris did not disappoint. The four friends spent the night in a flurry of shopping, perusing, gazing, and laughing. The orange glowing windows lit the streets that they walked in and each store they wouldn’t leave until they had tried out everything. When the flashing sign of the Moulin Rouge caught the attention of the group of four, Mary grabbed the arm of John and Molly and pulled them along, as Molly held tightly to Sherlock’s arm all night.

They snagged front row tables at a Folly performance, the space around the table littered with shopping bags and a hat box. Toby sat tethered to the chair leg by means of his new bedazzled collar and leash. Molly couldn’t think of a time when she laughed and smiled more than tonight.

A dashing French gentleman walked up to Molly and asked if she would like to dance. Mary and John quickly followed onto the floor as well. Sherlock sat alone, exasperatedly announcing that he’d guard the shoppings, but he sat and pondered through his glass of champagne.

“London holds to key to her past. Yes, Princess, I’ve found you at last.” Sherlock frowned at himself.

_ Sentiment? _

_ Don’t be ridiculous. Just a chemical defect. _

“No more pretend. You’ll be gone... that’s the end...” Sherlock continued to frown and felt an unexplained pain in his chest.

Sherlock shook his thoughts away, guzzling down a fluke of champagne. Their plan was playing out beautifully, and both parties would leave happy. He was getting too attached. He certainly wasn’t _fond_ of Molly. Tolerated her, yes, and even respected her. But not fond. He realised he needed to keep it that way if this plan was to work.

Sherlock ignored his thoughts and the painful flutter in his chest as Molly held his arm all night when the four took a lift up the Eiffel Tower, gaping at the dazzling city from up high. Molly leaned over the railing and pointed out the twinkling streets and shops to Sherlock, who listened as he gently thumbed the lapel rose in his pocket and, despite all attempts to school his features, despite himself, as he listened to Molly and watched her radiant happiness, he smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus begins the second half—Act 2, if you will! Bit of a short chapter, but enjoy!

The steamboat honked lowly and loudly as the passengers boarded, loaded their luggage, and settled into their cabins. Sherlock took a deep breath and approached Molly, trying to sound indifferent, “Here. I bought you a dress.”

Molly took the fabric and felt it. It was a bright yellow cotton that hung and twisted nicely, garnished at the waist by a large yellow satin bow. She looked at Sherlock quizzically.

“It’ll fit you. I gave the tailor your exact measurements,” he answered. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.” Molly could have sworn she almost saw him smile.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” she said as he passed her the dress. Sherlock stood for a moment, as if the conversation were not yet over, began to turn away, but then instead took a breath.

“I wanted... to thank you,” he blurted uncomfortably, but sincerely. “And... apologise. You saved my life on the train—for which I’m grateful—and proved more than capable. You’ve shown yourself to be resourceful, and... intelligent—far more than I had initially expected... and I’ve underestimated you, Molly, and I’m...” He struggled severely with forming the words in his mouth, which Molly found endearing and surprisingly heartfelt. “I am sorry, Molly. Forgive me.”

He took a step forward, his eyes never leaving Molly’s, and leaned down. Molly’s heart pounded in her ears as his lips made contact with her cheek. It was only for a moment, and soon Sherlock had turned and was walking up the stairs to the upper deck. Molly watched him go; he shook his head and threw his hands, dismissing his thoughts with a gentle, “Ack!”

When Molly surfaced, Mary was gazing over the railing as Sherlock and John played chess. Surprisingly, John was winning, but Sherlock remarked it was only because he was half in his mind palace. Sherlock reprimanded himself for turning his head too quickly when John spotted Molly and crowed.

“You look dressed for a ball!” John cried triumphantly as he stood and walked to meet her, taking her hand. “And you will learn to dance for one, too! Mary’s always teased me for having two left feet, so I don’t believe I should be the one to teach you. Sherlock, on the other hand...“ He turned to his friend, who sat with his mouth slightly open. John jerked his head and gave him a coy smile and a slap on the back as they traded places.

Sherlock shifted nervously in front of her. “I haven’t danced in years,” he muttered as they awkwardly took hands. After a few steps, John interceded.

“No no, Molly. You don’t lead. Let Sherlock lead.”

They looked at each other again, equally as nervous and flustered. When they took each other’s hands again, Sherlock couldn’t help but think of how easily they fit together; like two puzzle pieces. They glided across the deck with ease, their feet knowing the path as if they had known nothing else.

Sherlock said suddenly in a whisper, “I’ll let you in on something, Molly.”

Molly smiled expectantly. “Go on, then.”

“I love dancing. I’ve always loved it,” he said with a grin that was only partially smug. For once, Molly let her expression show how she felt. Several times Sherlock had spoken softly to her, even opened up to her, and she couldn’t help but feel like she was slowly getting to know the real him. She actually liked who she was getting to know. So she smiled unrestrainedly.

John and Mary shared an excited, anxious, and knowing look. He extended his hand and gently took Mary’s, looking at the expression on Molly’s face as he whispered to her, “It’s  _one_ , _two_ , _three_ , and suddenly, I see it as a glance. She’s radiant, and confident, and born to take this chance. I taught her well! I planned it all! I just forgot... romance. Mary, how will we get through this?” He sighed. “I never should have let them dance.”

Molly found herself riveted by the deep look in Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock found himself feeling the same. They stopped dancing suddenly, their smiles faltering slowly.

“I’m feeling kind of... dizzy,” Molly mumbled.

“Me too,” answered Sherlock breathlessly. “Maybe we should... stop dancing,” he added absentmindedly.

Molly frowned and looked down at their feet. “We have stopped dancing.”

_He’s acting strangely_ ,  she thought worriedly.  _He of all people isn’t one to mistake something like that_.

“Molly, I...” he breathed. He took a step closer to her.

“Yes?” she urged. They inched closer together. Molly felt herself letting her eyes flutter shut and leaning onto her toes in anticipation.

Sherlock straightened and furrowed his brows.  _ This is wrong_, he thought.  _I’m getting too close. Soon it’ll be over_.

He took a step back, patted Molly’s hand, and droned indifferently, “You’re doing fine.” He turned on his heel and quickly made his way back to their cabin.

As he made his way through the corridors, his eyes downcast, his mouth turned down, and his mind cloudy, he clashed shoulders with two men walking the opposite way. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of the two men who were garbed in military uniforms. From under the lowered fur hat of one, he saw deep, dark eyes and the faintest flicker of a smile. Sherlock frowned deeply and made sure to lock the cabin door once he was safely inside.


	11. Chapter 11

John sat up in bed for the third time and groaned miserably. He climbed down the bed to take calming paces around the room, occasionally casting unhappy frowns at Sherlock. Molly sat reading on the floor of the cabin with Toby sleeping at her side.

“Everything alright?” she asked.

John waved his hand dismissively, still watching Sherlock. “Just riddled with envy,” he grumbled. “Look at him. He can sleep through anything.”

Molly let her eyes fall on Sherlock’s sleeping form. He was laying on his stomach, his arms under his head as pillows, and his back raising and lowering evenly as he breathed. The back of his head was a wild mess of black curls. As he lay like that, Molly couldn’t help but think how soft and vulnerable he looked, but didn’t dwell on the thought too long as John made his way up the bunk bed ladder again and quietly lay next to Mary. Molly put her book aside and stood to crawl into bed, but stopped in her tracks when she saw a small object sitting on one of Sherlock’s suitcases. She reached for it and only hesitated a moment before grazing her fingers over its gold embellishments.

“What is this?” she whispered.

John lifted his head and looked at her. “Ah, it’s a jewellery box. We’ve had it for years. As much as Sherlock brags about his towering intellect, he still can’t figure out how to open it. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

Molly picked it up and held it in her hands. She was in awe of the object and the feeling she got as she looked at it—and especially as she held it. “Are you sure that’s what it is?” she asked, partially to herself. “I feel... something...”

John sat up properly as Molly tried to remember.

“It’s something... special. It has to do... with a secret...” She instinctively reached to touch the pendant of her necklace, which she kept on her at all times. It kept her anchored, especially as she found it harder and harder to remember who she is... and  _ was_. She looked up at John. “Is that possible?”

John shrugged. “Anything is possible. You made Sherlock apologise. Truly, not many people are capable of that.” John smiled sincerely at her. “Goodnight, Your Majesty,” he said with a nod of his head before tucking back into his bed.

The room was quiet and rocked gently as the boat travelled. For several more minutes Molly sat and held the object, but whatever memory Molly thought she had remembered had passed and there was no hope in recovering it. She set it back down on Sherlock’s luggage and crawled into bed, tucking Toby safely under her arm.

“Goodnight Toby,” she whispered. Toby blinked lovingly when she planted a kiss on his soft forehead and she quickly fell asleep to his purring against her chest.

It had been several hours that passed when Molly was awakened with a start. Loud boots made their way outside of their cabin door, along with the gruff and indistinct voices of men. All that Molly could catch was, “a young girl,” “lost princess,” and “Molly.”

Molly jolted upright. Quietly, so as to not wake Toby or the others, Molly climbed out of bed and padded silently across the room. She pressed her ear to the door to listen, but the men had passed and she could no longer hear them. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Sherlock was still sound asleep, she opened the door and stepped outside.

The night air was marked by her fogged breath, and she walked on tiptoes to make the least contact with the cold wooden floor of the ship. Faint voices could be heard on the deck and Molly followed quickly, hissing when her toes stepped on the wet planks and tugging her dressing gown tighter to protect herself against the rain. From the light of the ship, she could see two figures standing at the bow railing in long coats and fur caps, speaking lowly to each other. They struck a match to light their cigars. The flame glowed a pale green. One of them caught sight of her approaching and called out.

“‘Ello, Miss. Good evenin’ to ya.” Upon his approach, Molly saw that he was the ship’s captain. “Better get yourself inside, Miss. Storm’s a’comin.’”

There was a flash of lightning at that moment, and Molly could see clearly the face of the captain. She staggered backwards as a lost memory began to resurface. His face brought feelings of warmth, joy, contentment, and...  _ family_.

Without knowing, Molly cried out, “Papa!” His smile glowed beneath his greying beard. Her father Bartholomew, the Tsar, stood before her in the rain.

“Oh Molly,” he whispered, reaching out to brush a wet strand of hair away from her cheek.

Molly gasped a shaky breath and began to cry. “You’re alive?” she whimpered.

Her father smiled. “Oh, Molly,” he said again. “Of course.” He stepped toward her. “Of course we aren’t.”

In front of her eyes, Bartholomew was planted to the ground by roots that grew from the ship’s planks. They grew and enveloped his feet, and vines grew up his sleeves and shirt and into his hollowed eye-socket. He reached a mouldy, moss-covered hand for her once again.

Molly screamed and turned to run, only managing a few paces before she slipped and fell on her knees in front of a large dress. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the rain, and saw her mother standing and smiling kindly down to her.

“Molly!” her mother breathed elatedly. She held a torn fan in one hand and reached out her other hand. From underneath the webbed veil that was wrapped around her arm, her hand was void of flesh, and was simply bone. Once again Molly screamed and climbed to her feet, running as fast and agilely as she could on the wet ship, which now rocked violently against the storm. As Molly looked up, she saw her sisters, Olga, Tatiana, and Marie, standing in a row and smiling sincerely at her.

Her little brother Alexi stood next to them in a sailor’s outfit with a glowing lantern in one hand and a handbell in the other. The handbell read “U.S.S. Standard”—one of her father’s ships. There was a puddle of water collecting at his bare feet.

A roar of shouting grew audible and the ship began to rumble. Hundreds of Russian rioters with bayonets sieged towards the front of the ship. Molly turned towards the bow of the ship and did the only thing she could think of doing: she began to run. Her foot stepped onto the cold metal of the railing and she leapt forward, off into the dark and cold waters of the sea, just as two arms grabbed her waist and pulled her back onto the ship. She thrashed against them and tried to pull them off of her, but they were strong and kept a tight hold on her as they dragged her away from the railing.

Molly slowly began to hear Sherlock’s voice come through the fog of memory. “Molly! Molly! Stop! It’s me! Wake up! Molly, wake up!” He finally shook her free and turned her to face him. Molly gasped and blinked, panting heavily as she looked around. There were no soldiers, nor her family. It was just the two of them.

In a painful and exhausted cry, Molly fell into Sherlock’s arms and sunk to the floor. She grabbed tightly onto his shirt and wept despairingly. “I keep seeing faces! So many faces!” She sobbed violently.

Sherlock wrapped her tightly in his arms and lowered his head into her wet hair. “It’s all right now,” he soothed, squeezing tighter and rocking back and forth. “You’re safe now.”

When she had quieted, Sherlock shifted her to put his arm under her legs. He hoisted her up and carried her back to their cabin, where Mary and John waited anxiously. Molly was already asleep by the time they wrapped her in warm blankets and laid her down in her bed. Sherlock slumped to the floor at her feet, sighed heavily, ran his hands over his face, and eventually fell asleep at the foot of her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is creepy. I’ve got nothing to say for myself. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ A couple years ago for an assignment I drew the royal family as if they had all died in different ways. My drawings looked like what I described in the chapter. But I promise that’s the last of the creepiness! Hope you guys enjoyed!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short-ish chapter. Enjoy!

The white furnished room was well lit as the sun slanted through the glass panes. Several birds chirped and flittered around the blooming flowers that grew underneath the windowsills. A young lady stood in the doorway and spoke unbrokenly to another sitting at a tea table. She counted on her fingers, interrupted herself, reclaimed past thoughts, and giggled insistently.

The Dowager Empress Hudson sat bleakly at the table, a cold cup of tea in front of her, watching the birds flutter around the flowers, and tapping her finger impatiently on the rounded handle of her walking cane. The young lady was in the middle of telling her where they vacationed several years ago. Hudson finally held up her hand.

“Enough,” she commanded without a turn of her head. “Haven’t you anything better to do?” She called for the maid and told her to dismiss the young lady at once. Hudson continued to watch the birds when the maid returned.

“Does your majesty require anything else?”

Her eyes glazed over and she took several breaths before saying, “Yes. See to it that there are no more calls. I will see no more girls claiming to be Margaret Hooper.”

The maid bobbed politely and gently shut the door behind her. Hudson finally turned her head and gazed longingly at the closed door. After several moments of silence she stood and walked to the window. “These strangers come calling,” she spat, “but soon enough they’re gone. These strangers sent packing. What do they expect?” She laughed bitterly.

“So grasping. So lacking! Why not be direct?” She leaned heavily on her cane and brought her hand to her chest. “The beating of my heart after they depart; lying wide awake through the night. Will you ever come running home to me?”

Hudson gasped and bravely fought away tears. “You might... you might.” She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. “I’ve believed so long. I have dared to hope that the door might open and you might... enter.”

Behind her she heard the sound of the door and she whirled around, her eyes glistening. The maid stood in the doorway.

“Your majesty, there is another at the door,” she said. “You wish me to send them away?”

For several moments Hudson stood and stared at the maid. A tear slipped and then she steeled. Her back straightened and she turned to the window to watch the birds. “Tell them all to go. Tell them all no more. Tell them I close the door.”

After the maid left, Hudson reached down to the table and laid a picture face-down on the table. A picture of a little girl. Hudson didn’t even look, but continued to stare out the window.


	13. Chapter 13

Mary was able to book a high-class hotel close to the Royal Opera House the night before the Dowager was supposed to attend the ballet. Mary and John said goodnight and retired to their own room, leaving Sherlock and Molly to theirs.

Sherlock looked out the window and thought to himself, softly humming an original tune. He glanced occasionally toward the bed where Molly slept fitfully. She eventually woke with a start.

“Sherlock?” she mumbled as she looked around in search of him.

“You’re safe,” Sherlock answered. “Go back to sleep. We both have a big day tomorrow.”

Molly sat up, her hand resting on Toby’s sleeping form at her feet. “The ballet, right.”

Sherlock smirked. “Are you nervous?”

Molly nodded. “Are you?”

Sherlock’s smile faded and he looked back out the window. “Why should I be?”

“What if I’m not the lost princess?”

Sherlock looked at her with a frown. “How do you know that you’re not?”

“How do you know that I am?” Molly countered. “Have you ever seen the princess Margaret Hooper before?”

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and his expression softened. “Yes, actually. Twice. After I lived on the streets for several years I actually landed a job in the palace—just the kitchen. Obviously I lost that job when the revolution happened and I had to steal to survive again. The last time I ever saw her—the last time anyone saw her—was when...” He trailed off and his brows furrowed, and just for a moment he glanced at the unopened jewelry box sitting on the dresser.

“But the first time... the first time I saw the princess...” The corner of his mouth moved into a small and wondered smile as he remembered. “It was June. I was ten. I still think of that day now and then.” He pictured it. “A parade and a girl in a crowd of thousands. She sat straight as a queen: only eight—but so proud and serene. How they cheered, how I stared, in that crowd of thousands.”

His eyes glazed in thought and he turned and saw her in his mind’s eye. He began to lift his hand. “Then I started to run,” he continued, “and to call out her name as the crowd on the road went wild. I reached out with my hand and looked up—“

In his vulnerable half-smile, Molly could picture the little boy he used to be.

“And then...” he breathed, and grinned, “she  _ smiled_.” Sherlock watched the memory pass him. “The parade travelled on. With the sun in my eyes she was gone.” He finally looked at Molly. “But if I were still ten, in that crowd of thousands, I’d find her again.”

Molly couldn’t help but giggle. “You’re making me feel as if I were there, too!”

Sherlock shrugged and replied tenderly, “Maybe you were. Make it a part of your story.” He sat down next to Molly at the foot of the bed. He watched her think, remember, and imagine the day.

“A parade,” she began.

“A parade?” Sherlock urged.

“Passing by.” She looked up and squinted. “It was hot: not a cloud in the sky.” She slowly turned her head and smiled. “Then a boy caught my eye in that crowd of thousands. He was thin—“ She made a face—“not too clean.” Sherlock mocked offence. “There were guards but he dodged in between. Yes, he made himself seen, in that crowd of thousands.”

Molly’s smile faded and she stood up, thinking harder about the memory. “Then he called out my name and he started to run, through the sun and the heat and crowd.” She laughed, “And I tried not to smile, but I smiled.” She frowned and said, “And then... he  _ bowed_.”

She turned to see Sherlock standing and frowning at her. “I didn’t tell you that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Molly told him, gasping, “I  _ remembered_.”

Wide-eyed, they looked at each other in stunned silence. Sherlock was the first to smile as Molly said, “The parade travelled on...”

“With the sun in my eyes  _ you _ were gone,” Sherlock finished, “but I knew even then: in that crowd of thousands I’d find you again!” Sherlock took a large step toward Molly and bent his head down to her, but as he drew close, his smile faded and Molly saw the joy leave his eyes. He stepped back again and kneeled.

“Your Highness,” he saluted, his head bowed.

A pain arose in Molly’s heart. In his voice she could hear the mechanical distance with which he spoke to her when they first met. All that time they spent growing closer was dashed in an instant by remembering.

She was the Grand Duchess Margaret Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it comes together. This is probably one of my favorite chapters. Hope you enjoyed!


	14. Chapter 14

Carriages rattled over the snowy cobbles of the street outside the Royal Opera House. There under the overhang of the wide stone steps John watched in amusement as Sherlock paced back and forth. Every so often he would frown and mutter something to himself. He ardently tried to ignore the sickness in his stomach whenever he thought of presenting Molly to the Dowager Hudson.

“We’ve got nothing to be nervous about, mate,” John said easily, shrugging his crossed arms.

“I know,” answered Sherlock quietly, “she’s the princess.”

“She’s going to do fantastically tonight! I just know!”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, you don’t know!” John looked at him inquisitively. “I was the boy. The boy in the palace. I opened the wall.”

John laughed after a tense moment. “Is that what you’re going to tell the Dowager?”

Sherlock groaned frustratedly. “No! John! She’s the princess! We’ve ignored the hints! The Uncle’s cat; the parade; the wall. We never told her those things! She’s the real thing, John.”

Looking at Sherlock’s honest face for several moments more, John finally believed him. He laughed and frowned, and smiled and furrowed his brows. “That means,” he awed, “our Molly has found her family.” But John caught Sherlock’s sorrowful glance to the distant cobblestone. “And you—“

Sherlock snapped up to look at him. “And I will walk out of her life forever.”

“But—“

He put his hand up and smiled unconvincingly. “Princesses don’t marry sociopaths.”

“Sherlock—!”

He stepped up to John and warned deeply, “We’re going to go through with this as though nothing has happened!”

“You’ve got to tell her!” John hissed viciously.

“Tell us what?”

The boys turned their heads as Mary and Molly approached them on the steps. Sherlock found himself instinctually taking off his top hat.

John stammered and then finally answered, “How beautiful you both look.”

Mary smiled as she took John’s arm, “Well, thank you.” She smiled as she glanced over and saw Sherlock extend his arm towards Molly, which she took bashfully.

Through the echoing foyer, John led Molly and Mary up the stairs. Sherlock handed the group’s coats to a valet and looked up the stairs towards Molly. She waited for him on the landing, her black dress glittering under the candlelit chandeliers, her hair pinned up showing off her pale neck and shoulders, and her silk gloves covering most of her bare arms.

Sherlock went slack. Had he not seen for himself the dirty street walker she had been when they met, he wouldn’t have been able to deduce that she wasn’t a Lady. Or a Duchess.

Or a Princess.

As he ascended the steps to meet up with her, after she gave him an impatient look, he watched and counted the marble steps under his feet. Or he counted the chandeliers and guessed how many candles were in each one. Or he noted the dull roar of the opera goers. Or how ghastly hot it was in his wool suit or how he felt like his bow tie had shrunk two sizes as he levelled with her and she took his arm.

He cleared his throat and murmured, “I do hope the venue is to your liking, your highness.”

Molly chortled. The notion of being referred to as royalty was strange to her. “I’ve seen much worse,” she answered, “but then, I’ve done post mortems.”

Sherlock looked at Molly as the corner of his mouth crooked up awkwardly. “Molly, was that a joke?” She only blushed in response, but if Sherlock’s mind hadn’t been racing so fast, or his heart beating so hard, he would have laughed.

The two couples found their place in box five with little trouble and situated themselves. Sherlock and Molly sat in the front with the best view of the stage—and of the box where the Dowager Hudson was to sit. John and Mary gladly sat behind them, whispering mischievously between themselves.

As Molly sat fussing with the wrinkles in her dress, Sherlock leaned over and pointed to the box on the other side of the house. Molly followed his finger and her eyes landed on a figure: her expensive fur wrap was visible from across the way, as was her grey hair. Molly shakily took the binoculars from Sherlock’s hand and anxiously raised them to her eyes. There they fell on a sad, aged face, where just below there hung two strands of pearls over a tailored velvet evening dress.

“That’s her,” Molly breathed. “Please let her remember me.”

From beside her, Sherlock frowned and shifted in his seat, turning towards the stage and clapping absentmindedly as the maestro came out and began to tune the orchestra. For a moment, he wondered if Molly could hear how loud his heart pounded, but snickered at the ridiculous notion.  _Hearts can’t beat that loudly—that’s absurd_ , he told himself. But as he looked over at Molly once more, he at least hoped that it would be in time to the music.

Though the opening scene was said to be the most extravagant piece in the ballet they were seeing— _ La Belle et la Bête_, it was called—Molly could only find herself staring at the Empress, with her set face and stern demeanor. Molly tried to slow her pounding heart and find something to keep her shaking hands busy as her mind raced.

Sherlock looked over as the scene ended and whispered under the applause, “Are you alright?”

Molly laughed and shook her head, though she smiled. “I just can’t believe it,” she answered. “Can this be the evening? Can this be the place? Am I only dreaming looking at her face?” She looked at Sherlock with wide, hopeful, and terrified eyes. “Everything I wanted is suddenly so clear! My past and my future are so near.”

For once in his life, Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He watched as she turned back toward the Empress, finally being able to share her attention with the stage. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Molly holding onto the corner of his discarded overcoat. Sherlock swallowed and was then lost in his mind palace.

_Next to me this frightened girl holding tight as the dancers whirl_.  He straightened his shoulders, set his jaw, and reprimanded himself.  _ Keep your nerve and see this through: it’s what you’ve come to do! _

On the other side of the opera house, the Empress caught sight of the young girl staring at her. That brown hair, those wide eyes, that familiar face... is it?

“See that girl?” she asked her escort behind her. She mumbled, “Could it be?” but then shook her head and hissed under her breath, “Don’t be ridiculous!” She straightened and turned back to the ballet.

_ I refuse to dream. I refuse to hope. I must stop believing I will ever find her. _

The ballet went on. The young girl followed the monstrous beast and the set changed around them into a vast library. The girl twirled, leaped, and spun around the beautiful room in joy and gratefulness. She then took the hand of the Beast and the lighting changed, signifying a change in the hearts of the two characters. There was something there that wasn’t there before.

On the floor of the house, hidden in the shadows in the back, James viewed box five patiently. He had followed them into the opera house, sneaking past the valets and ticket takers, where he waited for the right moment. He slid his hand inside his jacket and over the cool handle of his pistol. He was a patient man.

From where he was he could see every glance and gesture between Molly and Sherlock. “She’s near at hand and here I stand: finishing this war. Times must change; the world must change; and love is not what revolution’s for.”

As the last note for the end of act one held, the eyes of Sherlock, James, and the Empress held on Molly, knowing it was fate that brought them here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ballet and the music box are both nods to my first fanfiction that I posted here (a Sherlock/Beauty and the Beast crossover). Hope you guys enjoyed!


	15. Chapter 15

The group settled back into their seats in box five as the entr’acte ended. Molly had managed to calm down during the show, but thinking about finally meeting the Empress after the show put her in another anxious fit. She fiddled nonstop with the ring she wore on her gloved hand and absentmindedly wrung the program in her hands until it was thoroughly tattered and wrinkled. Sherlock glanced out of the corner of his eyes and found her tearing the program into little pieces in her lap. He smiled. Reaching over, he took her hand from the paper scraps and brought it up between them, giving a small encouraging squeeze.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he whispered. They gave each other a small smile and a quick nod, which did not go unnoticed by the woman sitting behind them. Mary saw their little glances and exchanges and nudged John, who had been snoring softly, to show him. When she discreetly pointed out the soft look Sherlock gave Molly when she wasn’t looking, John gasped quietly and his mouth was caught between smiling and frowning. He looked at Mary again, who was all smiles.

John couldn’t quite believe it. How did he not seen this before? With all that was going on, and was about to happen, could it be that, after all this time, Sherlock had fallen in love with Molly? Of anyone, Sherlock would not be the kind to let his heart get in the way of what was to be done, but John could see the pain, fear, and even loneliness in Sherlock’s eyes as he looked at Molly.

“Oh Mary,” sighed John.

“He’s going to let her go,” Mary said plainly. John nodded. He knew Sherlock would go on with the plan, despite what he felt.

“Who would’ve known?” Mary said with a smile.

John chuckled. “What’s meant to be, is meant to be, I see it at a glance. He’s stubborn and unshakeable but something seemed askance. I tried to think of everything! I just forgot: romance.” John grabbed her hand and sighed. “Oh, Mary. How could we do this? How will we get through this?” He looked at his friend. “The Duchess and the common man.”

The audience rose in applause as the curtain lowered to end the show. While whistles rang in the theatre and roses were tossed onto the stage as the dancers bowed, Sherlock, John, and Mary stood.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked. Molly was looking up at him wide-eyed and nodded hesitantly. She took his extended hand, and arm in arm, they left the box.

The short trip to the door of the Dowager Hudson’s box was the longest walk Molly had ever taken, and yet it was over far too quickly. Her hands began to shake as she gripped the sleeve of Sherlock’s jacket.

“Alright,” breathed Sherlock as he slipped out of her touch, “you stay here, and I’ll go in and introduce you.” He took a step but Molly caught his sleeve.

“Sherlock,” she blurted, but hesitated when he turned back to her and their eyes met. “Are you sure about this?”

Sherlock answered without breaking eye contact. “Absolutely.”

Molly gave a moment of thought and then nodded curtly. Sherlock responded in kind and began to turn away when Molly caught his sleeve again.

“Wait, Sherlock!” She hesitated again when he looked at her. “I just... we’ve been through a lot, and I... I wanted to thank you. For everything you did for me.”

Sherlock nodded and gave her a smile. He looked towards the door to the Dowager’s box and suddenly turned to face Molly.

“Molly, I...” He swallowed the lump in his throat and took a breath. “I...”

“Yes?”

“If this is gonna be the last time to say this, I’m...” He picked up her hand and patted it curtly. “I wanted to wish you luck, I guess,” he finished.

“Oh,” was all that Molly could say. She could see something more behind his eyes, but this was neither the time nor place to find out what.

Sherlock straightened and took a deep breath. “Ok,” he said with a charming smile. He turned and walked confidently to the door of the Dowager Hudson’s box. He opened the door and stepped inside.

There was a small curtain dividing the door to the audience seats, and in between that, one of the Dowager’s chauffeurs. He said in a loud and falsely confident voice, “Please inform the Dowager Empress Martha Hudson that I have found the Grand Duchess Margaret Hooper.”

He was certain she heard him, and after a few bumbling moments with the nervous chauffeur, he heard her frail voice from the other side of the curtain.

“Tell that impertinent young man that I have seen enough Grand Duchess Margaret Hoopers to last me a lifetime.”

The chauffeur tried to usher him out, but Sherlock pushed past him and drew back the curtain in front of the Dowager. He stepped up to her and kneeled by her seat. She sat sternly and coldly, not even looking at him.

“Your Majesty, my name is Sherlock. I used to work in your palace.”

The Dowager Hudson scoffed. “Well, that’s one I haven’t heard, I must say.”

“If you’ll just hear me—“

The Dowager stood. “I know what you’re after. You think you’re so clever. That I haven’t seen this before. Men who train young women in the royal ways.”

“If your Majesty will just listen—“

“Haven’t you been listening?” The Dowager walked towards Sherlock and backed him through the curtain. “I’ve had enough. I don’t care how much you have fashioned this girl to look like her, sound like her, or act like her. In the end it is never her!”

“This time it is her!” Sherlock insisted.

“Sherlock... I’ve heard of you. You’re that conman from Saint Petersburg who was holding auditions to find a Margaret lookalike.”

“Your Grace, we’ve come all the way from Russia—“

“And others have come from Belgravia! Bohemia! Edinburgh!”

“It’s not what you think!”

The Dowager Hudson cried out. “How much pain will you inflict on an old woman for money!”

Sherlock wasn’t going to give up, especially when they were this close. “But she  _ is _ Margaret Hooper, I’m telling you! If you’ll only speak to her, you’ll see!”

“Get out of my box,” she spat. “You  _ reptile_.” She walked back through the curtain and said to her chauffeur, “Remove him at once.”

The chauffeur opened the door behind Sherlock and managed to push him outside before he could reach the Dowager again, all the while Sherlock begged the Dowager to spare him a few moments.

As he tumbled out the door, he fell at the feet of Molly. He knew at once when he looked up at her face that she had heard everything. He quickly stood to his feet.

“You  _ used _ me?” she hissed. Her eyes were brimmed with tears and anger.

“Molly, I—“

“I was just a part of your con to get her money?”

“Molly, listen—“

“You’ve been lying all this time?”

“It’s not what you—“

“Answer me, Sherlock!”

“Yes!” he roared. “Congratulations, Molly. You’ve deduced correctly. I’m a consulting conman! Amateurs come to me with their schemes and I put them into play. This was my scheme.”

Molly’s chest rose and fell rapidly and her face screwed tightly in anger.

Sherlock’s voice softened a little as he continued, “That’s how it started. But everything has changed because you  _ are _ Margaret Hooper!”

“Stop it!” Molly hit away the hand he was reaching out to her. “From the very beginning you’ve lied to me! And not only did I believe you, I trusted you! And I actually thought I—” She groaned in frustration.

“Molly, I’ve been stupid. I’ve been ignoring the signs. The parade, the wall in the palace—you really are the Grand Duchess! The boy in the palace, that was—!”

“Shut up, Sherlock!” she cried. “I don’t want to hear anything about what I said or remembered! How can I be sure I didn’t just remember a lie that you planted in my head? Leave me alone, Sherlock!”

“Molly, you’ve shown me something—a part of myself that I didn’t know I had. I...” He shifted and took a breath. He took her hand in his. “I want to go straight. I want to live clean.”

Molly scoffed. “Clean?”

She slapped him.

Twice.

A third time.

Sherlock stood in shock, pressing his hand to his right cheek, which was assaulted not only by her hand, but by her ring. He watched helplessly as Molly stormed away.


	16. Chapter 16

Molly strode across her hotel room, shoving another one of her dresses in her bag. Toby followed her back to the dresser as she picked up a pair of pearl earrings Sherlock had bought her, and as she turned, her hand hit the jewelry box that sat on the dresser. She caught it before it hit the ground and held it for several moments. For a moment she wondered if she should take it as well, but ultimately set it back down. The less things to remind her of this horrible ordeal, the better.

There came a knock at the door and Molly’s heart raced.

“Leave me alone, Sherlock!” she yelled at the closed door. She turned back to her packing. The door opened behind her and she turned to reprimand Sherlock for being so uncouth and unthoughtful.

But it wasn’t Sherlock at the door. There, as Molly turned around, standing with as much poise and dignity as Molly had ever seen, was the Dowager Empress Hudson.

Molly recognized her immediately from all the portraits Sherlock and John had showed her. And something else...

“Your Grace!” Molly stammered, remembering to curtsy.

“Yes, that Sherlock is quite something, isn’t he?” the Dowager Hudson said, stepping slowly into the room.

Molly smiled somewhat hesitantly. “He sure is, ma’am.”

“He kidnapped me and brought me here just so I would talk to you.”

Molly huffed in anger. “Of course he did. That’s just like him—doing whatever he pleases, no matter what the people around him want!”

“And what do  _ you _ want, child?”

Molly thought sadly for a moment. “I would like to know who I am.”

The Dowager Hudson gave a small laugh. “You are indeed a good actress. The best, in fact.”

“I’m—!” Molly checked herself and slumped sadly onto the foot of the bed. “I’m not an actress, ma’am.”

“My dear,” said the Dowager, “I’m old, and I’m tired of being tricked.”

“I don’t want to trick you,” Molly said earnestly and as sincerely as she could.

“I suppose the money doesn’t interest you either?”

“All I want to know,” Molly said, shifting to face the Dowager and blinking back tears, “is if I belong to a family...  _ your _ family.”

“I’ve had enough here,” said the Dowager firmly, and turned away quickly before her chin started to quiver.

Molly sniffed the air. “Clair de la lune...” she mumbled.

The Dowager turned to her. “What did you say?”

Molly looked at her inquisitively. “Clair de la lune...” she repeated.

“My perfume,” the Dowager confirmed. “I wear it whenever I go to the ballet.”

Molly nodded absentmindedly, her thoughts racing, and the Dowager turned back to the door. She was eager to get out of the room. Looking at the young girl’s face, so like her Margaret’s, was almost too much to bear.

“I...” began Molly, and the Dowager’s hand stopped on the door handle. “I spilled some... The carpet was soaked... and it forever smelled of Clair de la lune... just like  _ you_...!”

For a moment Molly smiled, but it disappeared as she touched her head, her mind reeling. The Dowager stepped towards her, her mouth agape.

“I... I used to lie on that rug... oh, how I missed you...! when you went away. When you came  _ here_... to  _ London_.” Molly’s old habit of fiddling with her necklace returned just in that moment, remembering the words on the pendant: ‘ _Together in London_.’ She had trouble thinking straight.

“Where did you get that?” the Dowager cried as she rushed to the dresser. She picked up the jewelry box and gazed at it with watery eyes, frowning in heartache and disbelief.

“That’s Sherlock’s,” Molly answered. “He always told me it was a jewelry box.”

The Dowager turned to her and held it out. “Do you remember this?”

Just as Molly’s fingers brushed the box to take it from the Dowager, she knew what to do. She picked up her pendant and slid it into the side of the box, turned it several times, and watched her memories return as the music box opened.

“It was our secret,” whispered the Dowager, her eyes brimming with tears. “My Margaret’s and mine.”

“The  _ music _ box,” Molly gasped. “To sing me to sleep when you were in London... I  _ remember_.”

“Hear this song and remember...” the Dowager sang, hushed.

“Soon you’ll be home with me...” Molly continued.

They sang together, “Once upon a December.”

The Dowager gasped, dropped onto the bed next to Molly, and embraced her. “Margaret!” she sobbed.

On the street below, Sherlock stood by the car, looking into the window of Molly’s room, but seeing nothing. He had trouble swallowing, and his hands couldn’t stay still.

“What are they saying?” he wondered to himself. “I wonder how long they’ll be?” He laughed at himself. “Why should I worry! Worrying’s not like me...” He frowned. “Girl gets a family; boy gets rich; and fairytale gets a spin. How can we fail with everything to win?”

He paced to the other side of the car and gazed longingly at the window. “I wonder if our paths with every cross again, the way they did when you were eight and I was ten. We said this was goodbye, but even so...” He shrugged. “You never know...”

Sherlock turned away from the window, towards the dank, empty street, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “I should be glad that we’re breaking free, but nothing is what it was. I didn’t know she mattered to me, but now I can see she does. Conman and Princess get their wish, and fairytale comes true.” He laughed pitifully, “Funny, the one small part I never knew: with everything to win, the only thing I lose... is...” He turned to the window.  “ _You_.”

Sherlock silently wiped the tear off his face, got into the car, and drove away.


	17. Chapter 17

Brisk steps crunched the snow on the steps leading up to the English palace. That was where the Dowager Hudson and Molly— _Margaret_ —were staying as they celebrated the return of the lost princess. Sherlock folded his summons letter and put it in his pocket. He had been called to collect his reward. After all this time... after all that he and John had worked for... it was finally theirs.

Through the large entryway, Sherlock could hear the celebration going on and the lively music, but his steps lead him to a secluded room on the second floor. He entered quietly, his head uncharacteristically low, and bowed to the figure in the room.

The Dowager Hudson smiled wryly at him. She gestured to the open briefcase sitting on a nearby desk, filled to the brim with paper money. The sight of it made Sherlock queasy.

“Ten thousand rubles,” she said, “as promised as a reward for returning my Margaret Hooper.” Sherlock took a reluctant step forward, hesitantly eyeing the suitcase. “And with that, you have my gratitude.”

Sherlock then stopped, and he couldn’t lift his eyes to meet her. “I am grateful, your Highness, and I accept your gratitude.” He looked again at the suitcase and felt sick. “But... I don’t want the money.”

The Dowager looked at him with surprise. “You don’t want the money? Is that not why you found my Margaret to return her to me? Perhaps there is something else you want?”

“There is,” Sherlock said, finally bringing his eyes up to meet the Dowagers, but only for a moment before they fell on the carpet again. “But nothing you can give.”

With that, he bowed lowly and stepped towards the door.

“Young man,” called the Dowager, “where did you find that music box?” He stopped and she could see his profile as he looked sadly over his shoulder. The Dowager nodded. “It was you. You were the boy... the servant boy who helped us escape.” Sherlock turned away his face as she came around to face him. “You saved our lives.  _ And _ you restored you to me. Surely you must want some reward?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not anymore.”

Hudson squinted. “Why the change of mind?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “It was more a change of heart.”

As he looked at her, she understood. She nodded, and with a bow, he left silently.

Sherlock descended the stairs, but the rustle and glint of the shiny fabric of a large court dress stopped him on the steps. He raised his head and found two large, brown eyes, looking up at him flustered.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Molly said distantly, with a command to her voice he had never heard before. She held herself differently, too. In that dress, her back was straight, her chin held high, and her steps seemed more like she was floating. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to take credit for her graceful etiquette. She had something deeper than what he could teach her.

“Hello,” he answered with a curt nod.

“Did you collect your reward?” she asked politely, but her tone was cutting.

Sherlock held up his hand and tried to hide his wince. “My business is complete.”

Molly’s chaperone spoke up, “Young man!” he cried, “you will bow and address the Princess as ‘Your Highness!’”

Molly became embarrassed. “That’s not necessary,” she tried.

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. He faced her, gave her a deep bow, and regarded respectfully, “Your Highness.” Both of their pleading eyes met as he stood up. “I’m glad you found what you were looking for.”

Molly nodded. “Yes, I’m glad you did, too.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Well, then,” began Sherlock, “goodbye. Your Highness. I hope you’ll be very happy, Margaret Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be thieving conmen.”

A sad resemblance of a laugh came from her.

He took a step toward her and took her hand in his. Just as he bent to kiss it, he paused, and instead moved the kiss to land on her cheek. Molly couldn’t help but shut her eyes and lean into it. Sherlock pulled back and began descending the stairs before she could open them again. She sadly watched him go.

_ Maybe it’s just my type._

Before Sherlock left the palace, he spotted another room which outlooked the palace’s gardens. He stepped in quietly and stood for a moment.

“If you’re ever in St. Petersburg again, look me up. I’m sure by then I’ll have gotten myself into some trouble.”

John turned as he heard Sherlock speak. He smiled brightly and went to embrace his friend.

“Give Mary my best. Congratulations to both of you.” Sherlock looked pointedly at the ring box John had been fondling when he came into the room. John shyly, yet proudly, opened the box to show it off to Sherlock, who frowned.

“Not as flashy as I had expected, given the reward money.”

John looked at the ring and snapped the box shut. He looked Sherlock in the eye. “I didn’t take the reward money.”

“What?”

“How could I, Sherlock? We didn’t deserve that money. I’ve been thinking, and I’m lucky enough to even be the man to return  Molly— _ Margaret _ —to her family, given what we were really there for. And also, I wanted to buy Mary a ring with my own money—earned honestly, not through lying. I know you think that’s ridiculous and sentimental, but I just felt that it was right.”

Sherlock for several moments stared at John before admitting, “I didn’t take the money either.”

John’s eyes went wide. “You what?”

Sherlock half turned away and avoided John’s eyes at all cost.

“Why didn’t you take the money?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Because everything has changed. I was wrong. We thought it was foolproof, but nothing is foolproof. How could we have prepared for the one impossible possibility: that we had actually found the Princess? I had thought that the girl would just be a mindless asset, but she... Over time I... We...”

He let out a frustrated sigh and looked down the hallway towards the ballroom, where there came echoing laughter.

“And now it’s time. She has her family again. And I have my work in St. Petersburg. I might even give an honest job a try.”

Sherlock turned and John caught his arm. “You’re making a mistake,” said John kindly.

Chuckling weakly, but almost happily, Sherlock answered, “Trust me. This is the one thing I’m doing right.” They nodded, shook hands, and parted ways.


	18. Chapter 18

From behind a door leading to the main ballroom, Molly peaked and looked at the dancing crowd. She looked for a long grey coat, unruly raven curls, and sharp blue eyes in the crowd, but couldn’t find them.

“He’s not there.” The Dowager Hudson stepped behind Molly and smiled.

“I know he’s no—“ Molly turned embarrassed and a little awkward. From what memories were returning to her, she remembered that grandmothers knew everything, but she blushed at being discovered so easily.

Hudson stood by her and looked out into the crowd with her. “He was a remarkable young man.”

“I’d imagine he’s spending his reward money right about now,” Molly scoffed, trying to sound indifferent.

Hudson looked at Molly and took a deep and shaky breath. “You were born into this world. But is it what you want?”

Molly grabbed Hudson’s hands. “Of course it’s what I want. I found you!”

“And you’ll always have me! But is that it? Is this truly what you want?”

Molly couldn’t meet the Dowager’s eyes, so they wandered the room, landing on where Toby was sleeping happily on the velvet cushion of a chair, enjoying the royal life. Molly frowned and her heart grew heavy. She knew what the Dowager was getting at, but she didn’t want to admit it.

Hudson smiled. “He didn’t take the money.”

Molly gaped.

“Whatever you choose,” said the Dowager, cupping Molly’s cheek, “we will always have each other.”

Molly shook her head, frowning. “I need to think,” she whispered, before slipping into a nearby room. It had large windows that overlooked the gardens in the back of the palace. Given she was on the second floor, she had a lovely view that helped clear her head. Outside she saw a large staircase leading into the palace. The back entrance must be nearby.

Molly took several steadying breaths, thankful that her dress was tailored to fit her, so her breathing wasn’t quite constrained. She forced herself to smile. She was happy—truly, she was—but something didn’t feel right.

“I should be glad I’m where I should be, but nothing is what it was.” Her frown deepened. “I didn’t know he mattered to me, but now I can see he does. Conman and Princess get their wish, and fairytale comes true. The only thing I lose is...”

She sighed. Turning back towards the door, she stopped in her tracks.

Her eyes widened. “ _J_ _ames_.”

Moriarty closed the door behind him and locked it. He stepped slowly towards Molly, in one hand he gripped the reliquary, and the other arm he had outstretched and brandishing a pistol. “An underhanded girl; an act of desperation; and to my consternation: I let you go. Well, not this time. London is no place for a good and loyal Russian.”

“We are both good and loyal Russians, James,” Molly said bravely.

“I’ve come to take you home, Molly,” Moriarty pressed.

Molly straightened and said with wavering confidence, “My home is here.”

“Stop playing this game, Molly!”

“We both know this is not a game! Everybody is thankful that I’m alive. Why don’t you!?”

“The Romanovs were given everything and gave back nothing!”

“And the people revolted? That’s what really happened, isn’t it? Your father was sent to slaughter them! My family!”

“My father didn’t kill your family, Molly! I did! What a stupid breed, the royals. So simple, so easy to overthrow! Normal people are so easy to control! I wanted to rule this pathetic country! Perhaps then I could finally relieve my boredom! And so I set up the whole thing. It was at my hand that the palace gates broke and in stormed all those people and destroyed the royal family.” He furiously flipped over a nearby desk. “But one little girl got away! Had it not been for you, I would be running this country and its mindless people! I traded my soul for the promise of an eternal Russian throne. I was given the power to overthrow the royal family—only when they were all dead could I take my place as ruler forever. All I have to do is finish it. And finish it I must.”

Moriarty reaimed his pistol and slowly stepped towards Molly, backing her up across the room. Though her breathing was rapid, she said calmly, “In me you see them. Look at their faces in mine. Here their screams. Imagine their terrors! See their blood!”

Moriarty shook the thought from his head, his face screwed in fury and agony. “The children... their voices... a man makes painful choices. He does what’s necessary! For Russia, my beauty. What choice but simple duty? We have a past to bury, Molly!” He backed her up until she was pressed against the window. Moriarty’s gun pressed against Molly’s forehead and she stared at him unwaveringly.

“Be careful what a dream may bring,” he growled. “A revolution is a simple thing!”

Moriarty’s gun flew from his hand as a fist clocked him in the jaw. Molly gasped as he fell to the floor and the assaulter grabbed her hand.

“Sherlock!” she cried. Sherlock stepped in front of her and shielded her while Moriarty picked up his gun and aimed it at them.

“Well, Sherlock,” drawled Moriarty, wiping the blood from his lip. “Here we are. And our problem. Our Final Problem: Margaret Hooper. All my life I’ve been looking for distractions—a challenge—and the royals were the best challenge of all. But now I’ve beaten them!” He pointed the gun at Molly.

“Bit cocky. You haven’t even pulled the trigger yet,” Sherlock said, easing himself between Molly and the gun.

“Now shall we finish the game? One final act. Everybody’s gonna believe it was all a trick. ‘ _Lost Princess Proved To Be A Fraud. Turns Out The Royals All Died In The Revolution_.’ I read it in the paper so it must be true. I love newspapers; like fairytales... and pretty grim ones, too. Do svidaniya, Margaret Hooper.”

Moriarty pulled the trigger as Sherlock swung his foot and kicked Moriarty’s hand, the bullet instead going through the window. The glass broke and fell away, and a cold air blew into the room. Sherlock lunged towards Moriarty while he was still reeling and tried to wrestle the gun out of his hand.

“Just kill yourself,” Moriarty grunted, “it’s a lot less effort!”

With a loud grunt, Sherlock threw Moriarty and pinned him to one of the unbroken windows, but Moriarty freed his hand and punched Sherlock in the jaw. While Sherlock regained his balance, Moriarty grabbed his coat, flung him around, and pushed him out the open window. His arms reached outward and his fearful eyes met Molly’s before he disappeared below.

“Sherlock!” Molly screamed as she rushed towards the window ledge. There his body lay motionless on the ground below. Molly picked up her dress and ran towards the back exit, hastily descending the back stairs, and falling to her knees next to Sherlock’s body. She put his head in her lap, brushed a piece of his hair out of the blood on his forehead, and tried to shake him awake as Moriarty slowly followed after her.

She looked up as she heard the gun cock. Moriarty aimed his pistol. Molly stared at him bravely, almost challengingly, her cheeks wet with tears as she gripped Sherlock’s body close to her.

“Do it,” she dared. “Do it and I will be with Sherlock and my parents and my brother and sisters! You’ve taken everything from me! What more do I have here?”

Moriarty faltered.

“Shoot me and I will have my family again! This war... this suffering will be over!”

Moriarty’s arm drooped.

“Your thirst for blood will finally be quenched. The country will be all yours! I hope you’re happy!”

Moriarty frowned. “You’re right,” he murmured. “As long as you’re alive, you’ll never see your family again. You’ve got a way out.” They stared at each other as Molly tried to figure out what he was getting at. He smiled cruelly. “Well, good luck with that.”

Before she could stop him, Moriarty put the gun in his mouth. Right as the bullet rang, his reliquary dropped and shattered on the stones below. His body vanished in a cloud of smoke and the gun dropped onto the rocks.

Molly sat in the silence, her arm still outstretched to where Moriarty had stood. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she gasped and looked at Sherlock’s body still laying in her lap. She put him back on the ground and turned her back to him, unable to look at him as she curled up and cried.

Sherlock brought his hand to his head and groaned, sitting up slowly and painfully. He saw Molly sit next to him and crying. “Molly?” he wheezed, gripping his side.

Molly gasped and spun around, the back of her hand accidentally slapping Sherlock square on the mouth. “Sherlock!” she cried. “I’m so sorry!”

He shifted and sat up more, laughing. “It’s fine. Though I am fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.”

“Sherlock, I thought you had left for St. Petersburg!”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

“But... why?”

“I...” Sherlock breathed deeply. He shook the glass out of his hair and cupped Molly’s face, leaning in.

“Your Highness? Margaret Hooper?” From the doorway nearby a royal called out into the courtyard in search of Molly.

Sherlock and Molly stood up and faced each other, their interrupted moment clearly gone, but the understanding still there. He held out his arm to her. “They’re waiting for you,” he said. She smiled at him and took his arm, and they walked into the palace together.

John and Mary stood by the Dowager Hudson as a servant brought to her a letter. The couple watched anxiously as Hudson read it slowly, and then she let out a cheerful laugh. She handed over the note and John and Mary read it together.

Mary smiled. “They’ve eloped!”

John laughed in disbelief. “That git! Good on them!”

Meanwhile, on a boat leaving London, Sherlock and Molly, hand in hand, rushed to the front of the boat, smiling unreservedly at each other. Sherlock picked up Molly by the waist and spun her around. The stars and lights from the nearby houses illuminated their faces as they gazed at each other. Molly cupped Sherlock’s face, and they leaned together and kissed.

A happy beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. Thank you SO much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Thank you all for your wonderful and lovely comments!!
> 
> I’ve got the next few stories already planned out. Now I just have to start writing them:P See you all then!! ❤️


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